


Eivor One-Shots, Drabbles, and Prompts

by author_morgan



Category: Assassin's Creed - All Media Types, Assassin's Creed Valhalla
Genre: Angst, F/M, Fluff, Smut
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-04
Updated: 2021-02-09
Packaged: 2021-03-02 03:26:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 27
Words: 44,253
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23998240
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/author_morgan/pseuds/author_morgan
Summary: Collection of one-shots, drabbles, and prompts for the Viking hunk, Eivor. These can also be found on my tumblr: author-morgan.
Relationships: Eivor (Assassin's Creed)/Reader, Eivor/Reader
Comments: 25
Kudos: 207





	1. Accidentally injuring Eivor

The bow creaks in your hand, sounding its resistance. The deer raises its head from grazing but when it looks round the woodland, it does not see you behind hidden behind both a tree and thick underbrush. The pale furs wrapped around your shoulders blend into the snowy surroundings. Your shoulders taut as you pull back on the silk bowstring, an arrow nocked and ready to lose. _Tonight we feast_ you think, it would be good to return with fresh meat after a long morning and afternoon of tracking. Breathing in, you release the bowstring. 

A second later something scares the deer and it skits off deeper into the forest, but your arrow had not missed its initial mark. There is a loud grunt that does not belong to any animal. Dropping your bow, you dart toward where the arrow had hit. The bear of a man is on his knees, hand pressed around where the arrow struck his arm. “Eivor!“ You exclaim, kneeling at his side. He looks up with a wide grin and breaks off the shaft of the arrow. "Damn you,” you curse. 

He is laughing. “Would it have killed you to miss?” Eivor inquires. 

You look him in the eye and lay you hand over his, adding pressure to the small patch of wool blossoming red. “I never miss,” you smile, partly teasing, and while it earns another chuckle from Eivor, it’s the truth. “Come on, my bear,” you muse, “let me tend your wound.” 

It’s not a long trek back to the village, you’d not gone out far for the day’s hunt and despite his newest injury Eivor is in high spirits for the Midwinter Solstice. 

A little girl spots you and Eivor passing through the open gates and charges with a wide grin as though it’d been weeks since she’d last saw both of you. Eivor scoops up his laughing niece and places her on his shoulder. Siggy notices the splintered shaft of the arrow rising from his wool and furs and points at it, frowning. “Who did that?” She asks. 

“I was attacked by this fierce warrior,” Eivor tells her, nudging you in the side with his elbow. A wave of heat rushes to your face. It was an _accident_. “She thought I was a deer!” He exclaims. 

“But you’re a wolf!” Siggy laughs, tugging on one of his blond braids. Eivor’s smile is as wide and bright as Siggy’s and is enough to make your heart ache. 

You hate to be the one to spoil the fun, but he _is_ injured after all and even scratches can bring down the mighty. “Siggy, why don’t you go play with Halfdan?” You suggest reaching to pluck her off his shoulder. She pouts, but you gently push her toward her brother and another girl playing a game of dice. 

Taking Eivor’s hand, you lead him back to your home and immediately motion for him to sit on the bench at the table. He’s surprisingly obedient for once —usually, he’s a stubborn patient who’d rather bleed out than accept his injuries might need to be treated. Scurrying around, you gather your growing collection of medicinal supplies and deposit everything on the table next to where he sits —already stripped of his heavy cloak, jerkin and tunic. 

He’s a warrior, through-and-through. His arms and chest are thick with corded muscle. Hand scarred and calloused from the axe and sword —and the plow. The arrow had struck the outside of his left arm. It’s not as deep as you initially assumed. The barbs of the arrowhead hadn’t even sunk into flesh. He grimaces when you snatch the arrow free, but it’s all over in a trice —fresh blood wells up and sluices past his elbow. 

Eivor grips onto your hips, pulling you across his lap. His beard tickles your neck as you try to focus on cleaning and binding his arm, but he’s insistent with his clever distractions. “Stop that!” You chide, laughing and swatting at the hand moving up your back. He stills and allows you to finish tending to the small cut. Tying off a knot in the strip linen you sit back —resting your hands on his shoulders. Those amiable blue eyes have not stopped smiling the entire time. “I’m sorry for shooting you,” you admit with a puff of forced laughter. 

“You know I’ve had worse,” he replies, cupping your cheek —thumb running over your cheekbone. 

You roll your eyes, recalling the times he’s shown up at your door half-dead. There have been times when you truly worried he wouldn’t overcome the fever but the gods were merciful and always answered your prayers. “Don’t remind me,” you tell him softly, fingers carding through his beard —the same shade as a golden field of summer wheat. A life without Eivor would be incredibly mundane. 

“Like when you shot me in the heart,” he remarks offhandedly, but it’s his way of saying _I love you_. Your eyes widen. You’ve stood at Eivor’s side for years now and only ever dreamed that he may have felt the same way you did one day —unbeknownst to you, he thought the same. His warm breath hits your cheek, followed by the faint prickle of his beard at your jaw before his lips are fully against yours. By the gods, you’ve waited so long for this moment and it’s better than anything you could have imagined. An arm tightens around your waist as yours wrap round his shoulders and neck. His lips are soft but firm, and taste of ale and dried apples and his arms feel like _home_. 

There’s a second’s pause as you both part, smiling and flushed before you lean back into him —placing your lips to his. You’ve waited too long to let these moments pass. Eivor pulls back with a reluctant groan when the wooden door creaks open and Halfdan pokes his head in. His mother was right —he’d found Eivor at your house. “Mother wants to know when you’re coming to the feast,” Halfdan asks. It’s already begun and whispers were starting up about why you and Eivor were not present yet. 

“We’ll be there soon,” you tell the boy and Eivor nods his agreement. Halfdan takes the response and bounds off back toward the mead hall. 

Eivor holds onto your waist as you try rising from his lap and steals another quick kiss before letting go. You offer him a fresh tunic —the other needs to be mended and washed now. He shrugs the burgundy tunic overhead and pulls on the brown leather jerkin. This time when you take his hand, you thread your fingers through his completely. “Let’s go, my bear,” you smile, and Eivor returns yours with a grin of his own as you both step out into the falling snow for a night of revelry to welcome the winter. 


	2. Eivor proposing with a song (inspired by HTTYD 2)

The entity of the village is gathered at the mead hall —feasting and drinking. Celebrations will continue until dawn breaks. The raiding season had come to a close, and the spoils were in a heap at the front of the long table. Jarl Arne looks over the gold, silver and trinkets with an approving nod, passing one of the golden necklaces to his wife. It is a good time to be in Stavanger.

You lean back against a thick wooden beam, belly full and mead in hand with your sister, Tove, sitting next to you. You both watch as Eivor is wrestled to the ground by a swarm of boys and girls. Over their cries of joy, you can make out his deep laughter. The mighty warrior is pinned beneath a pile of small bodies. Most are quick to heed the call of their parents’ but some protest being called away at the late hour. Eivor is like a big brother to many of the village children and to others he’s more akin to a father figure for those who lost theirs in the summer raids.

Brushing the straw from his tunic, Eivor lumbers over to you and Tove, sinking to the earthen floor beside you, smiling. You pluck pieces of straw from his golden head —unbound his hair falls just past his shoulders. He drapes an arm over your shoulders, pulling you into his side. “I see they left you in one piece,” you laugh, patting his thigh.

“They put up quite the fight,” Eivor replies. Slipping the cup of mead from your hand, he takes a long drag from it. He shifts and leans toward you, pressing a quick kiss to your temple. A rush of heat up races to your cheeks —even after the two of you had been together for many seasons and raids, such a simple action could still make you blush. At least tonight you can blame it on the exceptionally strong mead.

Tove leans forward, hand resting on her swollen belly. “ _Skol_!” She announces, raising her cup of watered mead. Eivor reciprocates the gesture and takes another drink. Not long after, Tove rises and returns to Bjórr’s side at the long table.

Eivor’s hand slips down your arm, his calloused fingers slipping through your own. “It’s good to see her happy again since father passed,” you sigh watching as Tove laughs when Einarr presses his ear against her belly in hopes to hear the unborn babe. Your father had passed in the autumn, and the grief had almost been too much for Tove and baby —it hadn’t helped that Bjórr had been in the Danish countryside at the time.

The bear of a man next you nods, blue eyes sparkling in the firelight. He hadn’t mentioned he’d gone to your father to seek his approval to wed you. The old man had laughed, proclaiming it a day he’d never thought would come but was always inevitable. You and Eivor had been inseparable since childhood. “I–” Eivor starts, you look up at him flushed from the mead and warmth. The words on the tip of his tongue vanish, and all he manages is, “I really like that dress.” You laugh, glancing at the newly mended dress of blue and green wool, then turn toward him —unwittingly running a finger down the scar cutting across his cheek.

Jarl Arne calls over the hall for music and soon there’s a chorus of lyres and flutes, the tables and wooden cups serving as drums. There are dancing and singing, clapping and laughing. Eivor holds you tight against him swaying to the music until a little girl named Gyda comes asking him if he’ll dance with her. He kisses your cheek before jumping to his feet, sweeping the small girl up into a jolly dance.

After a while Eivor is standing before you, hand outstretched. You lay your hand in his, and he pulls you up to your feet and to the center of the flurry of dancing bodies. And then the song changes, it’s a tune he’s been thinking about often of late, humming to himself and making words fit the notes.

“ _The stars ever unchanging, they guide us on paths unseen_ ,” he starts, voice warm and deep. Asides from the instruments the rest of the hall grows nigh silent. Eivor spins you ‘round. “ _And you were written in my saga_ –” he tugs you back into his broad chest, arms wrapping about your waist “– _destined to collide with me_!”

Your carefree grin is enough to make his words falter but on the next beat, he continues, swinging you around the clearing. “ _Like the fish needs the water and the raven needs the sky, you and I were born to be_ ,” he continues, the two of you dancing in a circle, hand-in-hand. Eivor steps closer then he goes to one knee as the song comes to a close. “ _Will you marry me_?”

There’s no hesitation in your response when you bend forward, kissing him before all Stavanger. You’ve loved him since you were both children. His hands grip onto your waist as you cup his face —fingers slipping back into his soft golden hair. You pull back to the sound of clapping and victorious toasts. Tove is near tears at the sight. Eivor rises back to his feet, standing a head taller than you. “Did that mean yes?” He laughs as the music resumes.

“Of course it meant yes,” you smile, tugging him down by the collar of his tunic until his lips are on yours, beard tickling your cheek and jaw. Eivor swears you’ve made him the happiest man in all nine realms. Breaking apart, he pulls you back into another dance until you’re both out of breath and close to sweating. Falling back near the edge of the hall, you sit with your legs draped across his lap, hands entwined. When you lay your head against his shoulder, Eivor nods toward the doors —he’ll leave the revelry to others, especially when he can fall asleep holding you.

The festivities will likely go on until the birds sing, but you both slip from the warmth of the mead hall into the brisk night. Eivor scoops you into his arms and starts toward your shared home at the edge of the settlement. The Moon casts an ethereal glow on your skin —enchanting Eivor. You rest your hand on his cheek, fingers lazily combing through his beard. “ _They say you stole me in moonlight_ ,” you begin softly, following the same tune he’d sung to, “ _but love, I was always yours for we were written in the stars_.”


	3. "Please... Kiss me even if it's just this once" + "No one's kissed me like that in a long time"

WHEN THEY TOLD you Eivor had been injured, you weren’t sure what to think. They haul him into your home, and you motion for them to lay him on the bed. Injured is an understatement —Eivor Wolfsmal is half-dead, wounds festering from poor care during the return journey from England. You pull away the crusted piece of wool bound around his middle and nigh gag at the pungent malodor. 

“Cnut!” Feet shuffle and drag across the floor. Your little brother appears at your side —eyes wide as he realizes who lay before him. “Bring some water and rags.” He nods, scuttling away as fast as the splint on his crooked leg will allow. Returning your attention to Eivor, you begin divesting him of the soiled clothes. The only indication he’s still alive is the slow rise and fall of his chest. 

Water sloshes from the basin and onto the floor as Cnut sets it on the bedside table. The boy gawks at the swollen, open wound on Eivor’s side. The torn, jagged flesh around it had begun rotting and the gash oozes a foul yellow-green fluid. You reach for a wet rag, wringing out the excess water before gingerly starting to clean away the debris and discharge. “Will he be okay?” Cnut asks, his small voice trembling. Eivor is the only father he’s known, and truth be told you’re the only mother he’s ever known. Both your parents died of a spring fever when Cnut was still a suckling babe. 

_I don’t know_ you think —wounds to the gut were almost always mortal. You grip onto Cnut’s shoulder and hide the doubt from your tone and expression. “I think he will be.” Eivor Wolfsmal was stubborn after all. He wouldn’t let a wound take him from this life. Water can do so much, now it must be cleansed with fire. You hand Cnut a pair of stout daggers. “Lay these in the fire for me,” he does as you ask with no complaint and returns to Eivor’s side even when you start rummaging around finding supplies for a liniment and charcoal pack while the knives heat. 

You lift one of the glowing blades from the hearth and return to Eivor’s bedside. “Cnut, hold his shoulders.” He clambers onto the bed, tugging on his leg brace. Taking a deep breath, you swallow the lump in your throat. _Eir guide my hand_. _Týr let me brave_. You press the red-hot blade against one side of the wound and the scent of burning flesh jumps into the air. Eivor’s body tenses and a ragged groan passes through his lips, but he does not wake, nor does he have the strength to fight. You repeat the procedure with the second knife and by the time you spread a fresh salve over the cleaned wound the hour is late. Your little brother is fast asleep at the foot of the bed. 

Kneeling at the end of the bed, you unhook the brace on Cnut’s leg, brushing back his ruddy hair and kissing his forehead. He was the best apprentice you could ask for. You move to Eivor’s side again and give a long sigh looking down at him before leaning down —softly kissing his cheek. _Please don’t leave me_ you think, biting down on your lip to stay the tears gathering in your eyes. _Don’t leave us_. 

Fever takes him early the next morning. You and Cnut form a snow-pack to keep his fever from growing too high. It makes for a long day and night of little rest for either of you. The village offers sacrifices to Eir and prays to the gods that Eivor be spared —he is a pillar of strength that cannot be replaced. 

Nearly a week passes before his fever truly beaks and now you are certain prayers have been answered. He starts stirring as you switch out his dressings again, hand reaching out to brush against yours. His touch startles you. Eivor’s clear blue eyes are focused entirely on you —his tender and diligent healer. “Please,” he rasps, “kiss me even if it’s just this once.” 

Eivor was certain the gods would take him. He had lived his life with no regrets, save one. For all the time you’d spent together, he’d never known what it was like to feel your lips against his. The longing looks you and he often share is no secret. When he isn’t away there’s not a single day that passes where Eivor is not at your side. You want to shake your head and continue tending to his wound, but the yearning in your heart is too much to bear. 

He starts to smile as you lean forward, first caressing his scarred cheek before settling your lips against his. The kiss is hesitant at first but becomes firmer when Eivor’s hand threads into your hair and he pushes himself up from the bed. He kisses you as though it’s only the thought of your lips that kept him alive. Breaking apart, your rest your forehead against his, fingers carding through his beard. "No one’s kissed me like that in a long time,” you admit, breath shaking. A part of you had always feared you’d never be properly kissed again.

His wide and bright smile makes your heart flutter. “I’d like to kiss you more often,” Eivor whispers, the backs of his fingers running down your arm. 

“I’d like that, too,” you tell him and Eivor pulls you flush against his uninjured side, arms wrapping around your waist. He presses his lips to yours —there’s a _lot_ of lost time to make up for. This kiss is quicker but no less sweet. You pull away, smiling. “I still need to tend your wound, Eivor,” you gently remind him, and besides, there was a very eager little boy who’d been waiting for him to wake. Reluctantly, Eivor lets you up, but even so, he’s still smiling because he knows there’ll be _many_ more kisses to come.


	4. Having a picnic with Eivor and braiding each other's hair

“WHERE ARE WE going?” You ask, laughing as you trail behind Eivor through the thick forest underbrush. He doesn’t answer. This is supposed to be a surprise and if he told you then it wouldn’t be —all his efforts would be for nothing. 

He looks over his shoulder, smiling. “We’re almost there,” he says. Overhead you hear the cry of the raven, Sýnin, and pick out the dark shadow passing through the canopy of leaves. You must be getting close to wherever he is taking you. 

You come to a halt at a glade wrought with wildflowers of all colors. There’s a coarse wool blanket laid out in the very center, held down in the early autumn breeze by a skin of drink and a woven basket filled with bread, soft cheese and fruits. Eivor’s warm gaze is focused wholly on you, gauging your reaction. His heart fills with warmth upon seeing you face light up with a smile. “What’s all this about?” You ask. The day you wedded had not yet come to pass, nor had either of your namedays. 

“Do I have to have a reason other than wanting to spend time with you?” He challenges. Shaking your head, you reach for his hand and tug him into the clearing. You’re always grateful for the time the gods give you with Eivor, even if it is hard to come by. He settles in next to you and lays out the small smörgåsbord, filling two small wooden cups with spiced mead. 

You and he talk about the coming winter and harvest over the meal and reminiscence of times long passed. He thinks back to the day you’d been bound in the eyes of the gods. It’d been a spring afternoon —you’d worn a crown of wildflowers and a pale blue dress. Freya herself could not have looked any more beautiful. He’d been the happiest man on Midgard. 

For ages, Eivor was certain he could live away from the world, and he had until the gods led him to you. Now it’s impossible to imagine a life where he didn’t get to fall asleep every night with you in his arms. 

Eivor tugs at one of the beads in his hair until it pulls free. Glancing down at the bronze bead pressed with a protective rune, he then passes it to you and takes up a lock of hair by your left ear. His thick fingers are surprisingly deft when it comes to plaiting hair. He finishes the braid and slips the bead into place, making sure it’s secured. “Now you’ll always have a piece of me with you,” he explains. 

The simple gesture makes your heart flutter —even after five years of marriage, Eivor still finds ways to surprise you. Ways to make you blush like a young girl. Leaning into him, you find his lips for a quick kiss, but Eivor is not eager to relinquish the moment. He wraps his arm around your waist, drawing you closer. His lips taste of sweet mead and yellowberries. 

He sighs as you part. “You’re tired,” you note. He’d worked into the night to help bring in the last of the crops in the field before the first true cold of the year set in. You pat your thigh and Eivor reclines, using your lap as a pillow. His eyes are bluer than the sky above and filled with adoration. You card your fingers through his golden hair, humming a lullaby your mother would sing. He watches your brows furrow in concentration as you add another braid into his hair. 

It’s not long before Eivor has drifted off, his faint snores filling the calm air. Sýnin even settles in next to Eivor. Careful not to wake him, you lean to the side, plucking a bundle of wildflowers. Humming again, you start weaving the stems together and forming a circle until it is large enough to be tied off and serve as a crown. You make another flower crown, though this one is smaller —more apt to fit you without becoming a necklace. With the few flowers left over, you craft a circlet just large enough for Sýnin. 

Birds sing their songs, and the warm afternoon sun shines down into the glade. Unable to stifle a yawn, you shift —laying back where Eivor’s head rests on your stomach. 

When you wake, it is dark. Eivor is carrying you through the trees, the moonlight filtering through the canopy reveals the flower crown situated atop his head. Sýnin is perched on his shoulder, proudly wearing the circlet you’d crafted atop his proud head. _My two perfect boys_ , you think with a content sigh. “I’m not lame, you know,” you mumble into Eivor’s chest. The glade had been a good way from your small farmhouse. 

“But it gives me an excuse to hold you,” he replies, and you feel the deep rumble of laughter in his chest before hearing it. Sýnin goes to his roost when you and Eivor return for the night. You help each other out of your heavier day clothes and then he’s tugging you back into the bed. Warm, thick arms wrapped around your middle. Eivor dips his head forward, pressing a sweet kiss against your lips. You smile, carding your fingers through his beard. _If only every day could be so perfect_. 


	5. Being best friends with Eivor and him having feelings and getting jealous when he sees another man getting touchy.

EIVOR WOLFSMAL WATCHES you from across the mead hall —his arms crossed, leaning back against one of the great wooden posts. He can’t help the smile tugging at his lips as he watches you dance with the children of the new settlement. Tonight’s celebration was in honor of the first harvest reaped from Saxon soil. It was the first time in many days Eivor had seen you without being caked in dirt and sweat —you were always a pleasant sight to him, though.

Trygve joins Eivor, passing his son a horn of ale and tracing where his gaze lingers. He smiles when he sees you —twirling around with a boy and girl on each arm wearing a crown of summer wildflowers— then elbows Eivor with a knowing look in his good eye. “She can’t wait forever,” Trygve notes. Eivor’s father can still recall when the two of you had been children —always getting up to mischief. Not much had changed in that regard, but the way you and Eivor looked at one another _had_. And both of you were too damn stubborn to do anything about it.

Taking a break from dancing, you settle down at one of the long tables to catch your breath. Noticing the opportunity, Skarde slides onto the bench at your side. He had thought himself a potential suitor for some time now and never missed a chance to try and make you see that. It’s all you can do to politely smile at his tall tales from past raids and other pursuits. You shift away when he tries resting his hand upon your thigh.

Skarde quickly quiets down when he notices who is approaching the two of you. Eivor settles his arm around your shoulders, pulling you into his side. You don’t notice the harsh look in his eyes for the smile kinking his lips. “Eivor!” You exclaim —wondering where he’d been hiding all night. “Skarde was just telling me he killed a _great_ beast.”

Eivor can hear the subtle hint of sarcasm in your tone. “A pup is no _great_ beast,” Eivor retorts and Skarde’s face goes red. It was only a young wolf he’d slain, not even large enough to be a true challenge to boast of. He pushes away from the table, leaving you and Eivor alone until an old grey-hair man hobbles over to the bench with a twisted cane.

“Trygve!” Eivor’s father takes your face in his hands and kisses your forehead before opening his arms wide in greeting. For many years, Trygve was the closest thing you had to a father since yours died in the summer raids. “It is well to see you!” You smile. “How fares your leg?” He’d taken a nasty fall while helping shingle a roof.

He falls back on the bench, patting his wrapped thigh. “Mending thanks to your skilled hands.” As a girl, you’d dreamt of being a shieldmaiden, but the gods had given you a talent for healing and you put those skills to work well enough. Few who came into your care were ever lost.

“And how is your mother?” Trygve questions in return.

Your mother still woke at the crack of dawn to tend the chickens and goats, even with her aching and stiff bones. She was a fighter though, especially now as a widow. You laugh, pointing over your shoulder to the carcass that had been the star of the feast. “About as stubborn as that old boar was.”

Eivor snorts, crossing his arms. “Just like you.” Trygve chuckles and you cross your arms, glaring at your childhood friend. You can tell something is bothering him and before the night’s end, you’ll get it out of him one way or another. As the hour grows later, people start flowing out of the mead hall and back to their homes for the night.

He’s sitting by himself when you part from the circle of chatty women —a distant look his bright blue eyes. It’s not until you’re standing over him that he looks up. “It’s terribly warm in here,” you say, nodding toward the door. Eivor rises and follows you out into the night. You take hold of his hand and lead him down to a small pond at the heart of the settlement —a full moon reflected on the rippling black surface. “What’s wrong?” You ask. He’s never acted this aloof before.

“Nothing,” he remarks, pulling his hand back and crossing his arms again, staring off into the distance. No one could brood quite as well as Eivor.

You roll your eyes, nudging him in the side. “Now who’s being stubborn as an old boar?” You expect him to laugh or at least see a small smile forming on his lips, but he does neither and your heart drops. Something really _is_ bothering him. “Eivor.” He glances down upon hearing the soft whisper of his name. It always sounds so sweet in your voice. “Tell me what’s wrong, please?” He can tell you’re worried, and a pang of guilt settles in his chest.

“It’s just something my father said.” Eivor bites down on his bottom lip, stealing a side glance at you in the pale moonlight. _She can’t wait forever_ and seeing Skarde with you only cemented it. He couldn’t take it any longer. Stepping in front of you, Eivor takes your face in his hands, stares in awe for a moment before leaning down —his lips finding yours.

You react instantly, pushing up on your toes and wrapping an around his shoulders. His lips are soft but firm, how you’d imagined they be against yours after so many cheek and forehead kisses. When Eivor pulls away, you’re grinning like a trickster god, fingers combing through his recently trimmed blond beard. “You know I’ve waited a long time for you to do that,” you tell him, holding his clear blue gaze. Your mother had always joked that’d you’d have to be the one to take matters into your own hands with him.

The backs of his fingers brush over your jaw. There’s a faint smile playing on his lips now. “You could have kissed me if you wanted to,” he notes.

“And risk ruining my oldest friendship?” You challenge —it would have been a silly thing to risk so many years for a foolish kiss.

Eivor laughs. He’d suffered the same trepidations. There was too much at stake if the sentiments were not returned and he couldn’t bear the thought of a life without you. _Better to have her close than risk chasing her away_. “I love you,” he admits, “always have.” Bending down he places another kiss to your lips —warm and soft— echoing the warmth blossoming in your chest.

“Always will,” you resound, parting. He wraps you in his warm, strong arms —holding you against him as you both watch the moon ripple in the water, knowing there is plenty of lost time to make up for.


	6. Being cold and cuddling with Eivor because he's so warm.

THE DARK WATER of the Kattegat is a cold slush as the prow of the longship carves a path. Long past are tepid days of life in the Wessex settlement —and they shall never come again after the decimation and slaughter by King Alfred’s men. Eivor steps behind you, draping a heavy cloak around your shoulders and an arm around your waist. You can feel his warm breath against your neck and see your own condense before you. 

Sailing in the winter months was never ideal, but you had been given no choice. All those aboard the longship were all the survivors left from the settlement. Of more than a hundred, only twenty-four remained —most are women and children save for a few wounded warriors. You grip onto the fold of the cloak, fingers twisting in the pale fur. _Odin forgive us_ you think looking skyward _we could not even honor our fallen_. 

Synin circles overhead, crying aloud. Ahead are a dark shoreline and a familiar village against white-capped peaks, visible as the morning fog lifts. The call of several horns carries across the bay. A welcome for friends and a warning to foes. Once in earshot, Eivors shouts —long, loud, and bereft. Villagers gather at the dock and along the icy shoreline. Mournful cries rise on the north wind as the weight of what their return means. 

You and Eivor both help the others disembark to safety and lift a gravely injured Cnut onto a makeshift stretcher to be taken to the healer and herbalist. Jarl Ama greets both you and Eivor —once pillars in the Wessex settlement. Ama looks around, tears welling in her eyes as the absence of her own husband sets in. “Is this all?” She inquires. Eivor nods —nothing need be said. Ama holds her chin high. “There will be a time for retribution,” the Jarl announces, speaking as a true leader, “but until then rest and rest assured many are indebted to you both.”

Fresh flakes of snow dance in the air as the village returns to silence. A feast to honor the dead will be prepared by nightfall. “You’re freezing,” Eivor rasps, taking both your hands into his. His hands are large, rough with callouses and scars, and warm —like the rest of him. It never seemed to matter how cold it was, Eivor was _always_ warm. 

Everything in your shared home had been left untouched —even the furs before the hearth are still heaped into a pile. Synin quickly takes to his perch near the hearth, preening his sleek, black feathers. Eivor stoops down, striking a piece of flint and sending sparks into dry kindling and split logs. Light and warmth fill the air of the small room. Draping his cloak and yours over a wooden chair, you join him before the fire. “When is the last time you slept, love?” You question, taking his arm and undoing the straps holding an ornate gold blade against his wrist. Eivor does not answer. He has not slept since before the attack. 

You doff him of the rest of his weapons and outer layers —some are still stained with blood— in comfortable silence. He turns the favor, unlacing the back of your ruined wool dress and leaving you in a pale linen shift. A chill takes your body, but between the fire and Eivor, you’ll soon be rid of the chill, though. He lays back on the pallet of fur and pillows, tugging you down with him. The fire warms your backside and the heat radiating from Eivor your front. 

At one time, you’d been used to the frigid winters and bitter cold, but after so long in England you’d grown accustomed to little more than a chill in the air. Pressing your face into his chest, you sigh —entangling your legs with his. “Your feet are cold,” he muses, thick fingers stroking your knotted hair as he draws a quilt of stitched pelts around you both. You shift, pillowing your head on his outstretched arm. 

There is a far-off look in his clear blue eyes. _Guilt_. “Eivor,” you breath, hand moving from his chest to comb through his beard. “Don’t blame yourself,” you plead. The losses could be laid at no one’s feet but the King of Wessex. Without Eivor, even more of your people could have met the harsh kiss of iron. His gaze softens and focuses on you. A moment of silence passes again, then he brings you closer and finds your chapped lips with own for a short, sweet kiss. 

“I love you,” he murmurs. Somehow you always knew exactly what he needed to hear. No other being —save Synin— would ever understand him the way you did. You smile, leaning in to kiss the tip of his nose. A silent way of saying _I love you_ that you and he had crafted so many years ago. Eivor wraps you in his arms wholly, pulling you flush against him and pressing his cheek into the crown of your head. He sighs, content for the moment. The days of unrest finally taking its toll. You place another quick kiss to the place where the entwined serpents tattooed on his chest cross. Between Eivor Wolfsmal and the warmth in your heart, you are certain to never go cold again. 


	7. Going down on Eivor to wake him up. (SMUT)

YOU SMILE FOR him —to the thought of waking up this way every day. With a soft hum, you drape your leg over Eivor’s thighs, moving to straddle him. Your eyes open now, blinking to the adjusting light —you catch glimpse of Eivor in all his morning glory. Beard slightly ruffled, braids half undone, his lips parted ever so slightly as he breathes, well-rested eyes closed still as he relishes the last moments of the morning. His chest is a rosy pink, freckles barely visible to just above his pecs and the dark serpent tattoo. He looks strong as Thor or Baldr, but the scars on his arms and face are a reminder of his mortality.

You place your palms on his chest —fingers lightly pressing into his flesh— lips attaching to his neck as you kiss and nip endearingly. There is a soft smile on his lips with his eyes half-lidded. Slowly, you trail down, kissing every part of him you can reach —his biceps, his collarbone, his stomach— trailing further and further, until you reach his cock, a hard and thick outline visible in his soft linen pants.

Eivor’s hands lightly tangle in your hair, fingers gently massaging your scalp as he sinks further into the mattress, already anticipating what he knew you would do next. With a grin, you place small, soft kisses around his navel, and just above the coarse thatch of blond hair above the waist of the pants. He lifts his hips, hands reaching down to push away the lounge pants as you pull them down over his bum and thighs, discarding them to the floor.

Soft and quiet moans fill the air. Eivor hums to the feel of your hand wrapping his cock, lips wrapping around the throbbing and swollen head. Wet and warm, your tongue barely laps his tip, gently bobbing up and down an inch of his cock —fingers working his shaft and taut, heavy balls. With his voice appreciative and blissed, Eivor sighs softly for you, gently encouraging you to bob deeper down him, feeling more blood rush to his cock in a flood.

“That’s it, _skatt mitt_ ,” he encourages, taking gentle hold of your fingers when you place them on his thigh, moving your mouth up and down leisurely, savoring his taste. His sensitive nerves tingle to the feel of your tongue on him. “ _Fuck_ ,” he groans, eyes still fluttering shut. Loosening your jaw, you take more of him, shallow bobs emitting sounds of your throaty slickness, cock shoved deeper inside your throat.

You glide your tongue over one of the thick veins that run up the length of his cock and his hips buck upward into your mouth —his hands twist in the furs and linens beneath him. Eivor breathes your name like a ragged prayer and praises the little, needy sounds you make. Gently, Eivor places a hand on the back of your head to move you down encouragingly, just enough to guide you. With a few more, faster, _tighter_ bobs, you feel him twitch inside your mouth, teeth clenched —release desperately on his hazed mind.

It pains him to pull your mouth from his cock, but Eivor _needs_ to buried deep in the heat between your thighs. He gathers you in one arm, flipping you around to lay beneath him and kisses your neck roughly, his teeth scraping against your skin. Eivor wedges himself between your legs, spreading you wide beneath him. One of his hands slides over your front, pausing to squeeze a breast before continuing its descent. He presses his palm against your center and groans into your neck at how wet you are for him.

One finger slips into your heat, then another —curling upward inside you. All too soon they disappear, and you watch Eivor place the two sodden fingers in his mouth, sucking them clean with a low groan that makes the heat pooling in your stomach burn hotter. “Please,” you whimper, and he is quick to oblige after being woken in such a pleasant way.

With one long thrust, he is fully inside you. Eivor’s lips find yours for a rough kiss, swallowing your sharp moan at the way his cock stretches you —a delicate balance between pleasure and pain. He snaps his hips into yours again and you hiss at the drag of the swollen veins on his cock against your walls —feeling every inch of him.

Eivor grunts as he pounds into you, kissing you again —sloppily. Your hands claw at his back, but he does not care. The burn of your nails scraping over his ribs and shoulders keeps his pace strong though his composure begins to falter —he had been close to cumming. “Eivor!” His name leaves your lips as a breathy chant, hips rising to meet his own. He presses his forehead against yours, bright blue eyes boring into your own. “Let go, _elskan mín_ ,” you whisper, threading your fingers into his soft, golden hair.

He picks up his pace and presses the pad of his thumb against your clit, rubbing rough circles. Your thighs tremble as you feel yourself teeter on the precipice of euphoria. Eivor sends you falling with another rough stroke that hits a spot deep inside you. Your toes curl, heels pressing into his calves, hands tugging at his hair as your head falls back, lips parting in a silent throe. He dips his head down, pressing a wet kiss to the base of your neck. The hand that’d occupied your clit, falls away —slipping under your bum to angle your hips upward.

Eivor’s thrusts become wilder —feral— as he ruts into you without abandon. You cling to him, gaze still clouded and body still quivering. A quick shudder stills his movements when your walls clench around him, hard. His cock throbs as he lets out a string of curses and strangled moans. Pulses of warmth spread within you and a wet warmth slides from your cunt with several more, lazy thrusts.

You only feel his weight for a moment before he rolls off you and onto his back, breathing hard. You whimper at the empty feeling between your thighs even though his seed seeps from your heat. Eivor draws you into his arms and plants a line of soft, short kisses from your shoulder to your lips. You smile into the kiss, hands running over the planes of his chest. “Good morning,” you whisper, flushed.

Eivor chuckles, brushing the damp hair from your face with one hand, the other tracing the length of your spine. “Good morning, indeed,” he muses, warm breath dancing over your lips —unsure what he did deserve such a pleasant surprise, though one thing is certain, he would repay you in kind.


	8. Bloody Revelations

EIVOR GLANCES OVER his shoulder and breathes out a heavy sigh. You’d given away your presence by stepping on a twig on the narrow trail and _snapping_ it. Turning, he crosses his arms with pursed lips. “I told you to stay with the others at the settlement,” he chides as gently as he can, though annoyance still seeps into his tone.

Stopping in front of him, you put your hands on your hips and puff out your chest. “Stay here with the womenfolk, it’s dangerous out there,” you say, trying your best to imitate the timbre of Eivor’s voice. He hadn’t said those words per se, but it is what he had meant. It isn’t that Eivor doubts your prowess or skills, only that Anglia is still a foreign land with many secrets and dangers. The settlement had lost its kennel master and his pack of hounds to bears not even a fortnight ago. 

His lips twitch upward, threatening to turn his frown into a poor smile. “It’ll be like old times,” Eivor remarks, motioning for you to come along with him. It will feel like old times, before the wars between chieftains to choose a true king and unify Norway. Too many of your people had died for the cause and when Eivor would not submit to King Harald’s reign, he took his people to safety —to Anglia. 

“Here,” Eivor murmurs his warm breath tickling your neck, hand resting on your bent draw arm, “lower this arm.” He presses down, eyes still narrowed on the deer grazing in a small forest clearing —a fine meal to bring back to the village. “Release,” he says. You let the arrow go, sucking in a large gulp of air as it whistled through the crisp air. A soft _thunk_ is followed by a louder _thud_ when the deer collapses. Eivor had felt his heart stop when you looked back at him with a bright smile. The thought of one of your first hunts together brings a faint smile to his lips, though he does not let you see. 

_Old times_ you muse with a smile, trodding alongside him. Eivor had always been one to keep to himself, but that did not detract from his ability to be a leader among men —strong and just. A leader who would fight his own battles and lay down his life if need be, but he was always trying to prove something —to himself and others. Eivor has nothing to prove to you, though. He is among your oldest friends and besides Sýnin, you are one of his only confidants. You can think fondly on old times, but you are excited to learn what this new life holds. 

“Why’d you really follow me?” Eivor asks, his prior annoyance turned to mirth. In truth, he is glad to have your company —the burden of leadership among other duties has kept the two of you apart for many days. You give a small shrug, playing off the knot twisting in your stomach and heart as indifference. Eivor holds his arm out, stopping you in your tracks and raises a finger to his lips. 

The forest is dark and deep and _silent_. You glance up at the canopy searching for Sýnin, but the raven is not to be found. Eivor reaches behind his back, freeing one of his axes and your reach of the hilt of the blade on your belt —nervous. 

“Stay close,” he whispers, inching farther into the wilderness. He stops again after several steps. Now the silence is replaced with a low rumble —growling. A dark shadow moves in the underbrush. The black wolf bolts from its cover, teeth bared and jaws snapping. Neither of you notices the second, larger beast until it latches onto Eivor’s back. Sending them both rolling through the thicket in a blur of grey fur and brown leather —out of sight into a gully.

The black wolf surges, swiping its massive paw across your leg —claws sinking into your thigh. You scream at the burst of searing pain, slashing at the beast until the point of your blade sinks into its side. It rears back with a high-pitched yelp. You step back, foot catching on an upturned root. Just as you begin falling, the wolf leaps. 

Eivor pulls himself from the gully and glances around. When he sees both you and beast unmoving, his heart seizes. He pushes the wolf’s corpse aside and kneels, laying his hand against your bloody cheek. “Damn you,” he curses, shaking his head even as you smile at him. At first glance, most of the blood belongs to the wolf, but Eivor notices the ripped fabric at your thigh and frowns. “You should have listened,” he tells you, inspecting the three long, bloody tears in your skin. 

“When have I ever?” You counter, laughing as he slips his arms around your shoulders and beneath your knees lifting and cradling you against his chest. “I can still walk, you know,” you tease. Eivor rolls his clear blue eyes, unable to hide the smile pulling at the corner of his lips. He’ll take this as an excuse to keep you close. 

ANOTHER KETTLE OF water hangs over the fire for a bath. Eivor kneels in front of you, wet cloth in hand. Solveig had already collected your tattered britches to patch —besides a night shift and wool dress they were the only pair you had for now. He wipes away the dirt and blood, pleased to find the wounds were not deep —stitching or burning would not be needed, just a good cleaning and fresh binding. Eivor’s rough but gentle hands linger longer than needed.

He rises from the ground, tossing the dirtied cloth into the washbasin before fetching the kettle of steaming water and dumping it into the wooden tub. Eivor motions to the hot bath and averts her gaze until he hears the sloshing of water followed by a soft, content sigh. 

“Eivor,” you call, twisting around to see him looking at the scratches on his back —his tunic and jerkin hanging over the back of a chair. He makes a low rumble of acknowledgment, quickly glancing over his shoulder. A flush of color is on your cheeks, though you can blame it on the water and steam. “There’s enough room for two,” you tell him, motioning around at the tub. He hesitates but gives in to his heart’s desire. 

Water sloshes over the wooden sides when he slips into the tub, sitting in front of you, knees brushing together with yours. You lean toward him —scrubbing away the dried blood from a scratch on his shoulder. He shifts, straightening his legs, and draws you to him by the waist. Every time you’ve ever been this close to him, your heart skips several beats. _He’s a good man, a good leader, my closest friend_ you think, _and I love him_. You drop the sponge and take his face into your hands, fingers deftly combing through his beard and tracing the scar on his cheek. “Eivor,” you murmur, “I have something to tell you.”

Eivor strokes your cheek with the back of his hand, fingers trailing over your neck and back into your hair. A soft smile on his lips lights up a twinkle in his eyes —softer than even a summer sky. “So do I,” he admits, feeling a fool for not acting on his heart’s wishes sooner. Eivor had tried convincing himself he was better off alone, but he is stronger with you. 

He draws in a deep breath and so do you. “I love you,” you both say at the same time. For a moment it doesn’t feel real, but warmth and elation fill your heart and his. Eivor tilts his chin up as you bend forward, pressing your lips to his. One of his arms wraps around your waist, bringing you flush against him —his beard tickling your cheek. The break lasts only a moment and when Eivor’s lips brush against yours for a second time, you can feel his smile. 

You lay your head on his shoulder, following the outline of the dark tattoo on his chest —a serpent consuming its tail— while he hums, fingers running up and down your spine. “ _Skatt mitt_ ,” he breathes when the water grows tepid, he still needs to bind your leg. Eivor wraps his arms around you, rising from the bath and places you on a chair by the hearth, moving to gather a clean strip of linen. With a fresh bandage, he wraps the two of you in a roughspun blanket before the fire. It had always felt right when he wrapped you in his arms, but now it feels like _home_. 

“I want every day to be like this,” you tell him, leaning farther into his chest. 

He laughs softly, kissing your temple —arms tightening around you. “As long as there aren’t wolves every day,” he mutters, earning a chuckle from you too. _This_ Eivor thinks _this is a good life_. 


	9. A Good Day

THE MORNING AIR is warm and filled with birdsong. Eivor adjusts the weight of his axes and bow, pushing the sleeves of his tunic up above his elbows as he treks farther into the dense forest of Anglia. Crops had been sewn and in honor of the first harvest from new soil, he had called for a celebration. Now he hunts for the unfortunate beast who will be at the center of the table —boar or deer, either will be roasted on a spit and devoured. 

Ahead is a small clearing and a spring of crisp water surrounded by stone and trickling out as a small stream. Mingled with the sound of water bubbling from the earth is a familiar voice humming a song —soft and sweet. Eivor nears the spring and kneels in the thicket, smiling to himself. _So, this is where she ran off to so early,_ he thinks after having woke to an empty bed. He shifts, moving a branch and peers over the short rock wall. 

Spread out on several of the rocks are yours and Eivor’s clothes, freshly mended and scrubbed after helping work in the fields and now drying in the summer sun. You could have returned all the garments to the reed-basket and returned to the settlement, but the cool water is inviting after a hard morning’s work. Stepping down into the pool, you let out a long sigh —leaning back against a smooth stone. Slipping from your shift, you set to washing it and leaving it to dry over a rock too. 

The _cracking_ of a branch draws your attention to the nearby thicket. A dark shadow is crouched down behind the greenery —too small to be a bear or wolf, but the right size for a man. You reach for the basket, gripping onto a short dagger within it. “Show yourself!” You shout, keeping your voice firm and unafraid. 

Bushes rustle and more twigs _snap_. A tall man rises and steps forward, holding his hands up in surrender. His hair is blond and held back in a warrior’s braid —much like his neatly plaited beard. Clear, piercing blue eyes focus on you as he steps up to the far edge of the spring. “I did not mean to startle, fair lady,” he remarks, smiling despite his poor excuse of an apology. 

“But you thought to watch me from the shadows?” You inquire, pleased to see some semblance of shame color his scarred cheeks at the accusation. 

Eivor crouches, his gaze trailing over your face before darting to what lay concealed beneath the water’s surface. It is as though he has stumbled upon Freyja herself, though he sees no chariot pulled by cats nor is the boar, Hildisvíni, anywhere to be found. “Only so that I may gaze upon your beauty,” he replies, reaching behind his back. He produces a single cornflower —almost the same shade as his eyes— and holds it out for you to take. 

Wading forward, you lower the dagger and take his gift. You had seen patches of them growing in the barley fields on your way into the forest. The pale blue blooms had always been one of your favorites —your husband would bring back pressed and dried cornflowers from voyages. “Do you speak so sweetly to every woman you meet naked in the woods?” You challenge. 

He does not answer, though his smile is telling enough. Eivor motions to the spring. “May I?” You shrug, backing away to give him room. You watch as Eivor sets aside his bow and throwing axes and loosens the leather belt holding his quiver and sword. Deft fingers undo the line of leather knots on his worn leather jerkin —it falls to the ground and is soon followed by his burgundy tunic. 

“The clothes,” he begins, looking over your shoulder, “they belong to your husband?” You nod in response. “He’s a lucky man,” Eivor says, fighting to hold onto his charade — _I am a lucky man. The gods have been too kind_. 

You smile, the first he has seen since stumbling upon you. “The best man I know,” you muse. Your husband is a leader of men —selfless and determined— but above all, he is a loving husband and father. You could have asked for no one better to pledge you love to. 

“You remind me of my wife,” Eivor muses, steadily inching closer. He stands before you now and the small scars on his chest and arms more apparent in the soft light of the morning sun. 

Lifting your hand, you tentatively touch one of the scars at his clavicle —a small thing that is hardly noticeable had you not been the one to put it there. “Do I?” You try sounding surprised even as your fingertips move up his neck, running over a rough patch of pocked skin —he had been scarred by flames. 

“Aye–“ Eivor reaches out, his calloused hands running up your sides and arms “–she has eyes like yours.” The heat racing to your cheeks is involuntary, but he smiles and runs one of his thumbs across your bottom lip before pushing his fingers into your hair and closing the gap between you both. His beard is rough against your cheek and jaw, but his lips are soft as they move against your own. Eivor pulls away too quickly. “And she has lips like these,” he breathes. 

A dark shadow flies overhead, once then twice before swooping down and settling on Eivor’s head. Sýnin ruffles his feathers —dark and shining like an oil slick— and lets out a low, gurgling croak. Eivor looks up at the bird, his smile receding. You laugh, reaching up to scritch the feathers under his neck. “Still a handsome boy,” you tell the raven. He preens at the praise, bouncing up and down on Eivor’s head. 

Eivor gently shoos Sýnin from his head, and the raven makes a short flight to perch on one of the stones —keeping chary vigilance. “I thought you were hunting,” you say, splashing some of the cool water at him. 

“I was,” he defends, though then he motions to you and the spring, “but then got _distracted_.” It was hard not to be distracted by such a beautiful sight. Besides, it had been weeks since the two you had been able to have something resembling alone time. Between the harvest and Hjørdis, there was too little time in the day. Eivor rests his hands on your hips and leans his head on your shoulder. Leadership was a heavy burden, but he had you to ease his troubled mind. 

“What will they think if you come back empty-handed?” You tease. Surely it would raise brows if the fierce Eivor Wolfsmal returned from a hunt with nothing to show for it. He grumbles something inaudible against your neck. Sighing, you run your fingers over his back, up to his neck, and into his bound hair. You will gladly take the moment for what it is.

* * *

EIVOR CARRIES THE deer across his shoulder —the poor thing had come across them on the path back to the settlement. It is not a large stag, but with the other kills will be more than enough to fill stomachs during the feast. He sets the deer down when he sees a small girl of four running toward him —arms outstretched. Hjørdis laughs as her father scoops her up from the ground. She is the spitting image of him —blond-haired and blue-eyed, with the same curve in her nose, little of yourself is reflected in your daughter. “What have you been doing, little one?” He asks, lifting her onto one of his shoulders. 

“Practicing swords with Þóra,” she answers, beaming. It had taken some time for you to accept Hjørdis wished to start her weapons training so early, but with Eivor’s persuasive tongue and your sister’s assurances to be gentle, you relented. Hjørdis was happiest with a wooden sword in hand, fitting for her namesake. 

You look up at your daughter, curious to know if she had neglected her other lessons with your mother. “And what of your weaving lessons, Hjørdis?” The girl flushes, hiding her face in her father’s hair. Eivor laughs — _a little warrior indeed_. “C’mon, my little shieldmaiden–” you smile “–it’s time to wash up.” Dirt paints her golden hair a light brown and is smudged on her face. 

While the water warms over the hearth for a bath, Hjørdis takes to showing Eivor what she has learned from her lessons. She whacks the side of his knee with the short wooden blade, and he collapses to one knee, raising his hands in surrender, but your daughter is not merciful. Hjørdis leaps into her father’s arms, sending them both back into the floor, knocking into one of the benches at the table. “I yield!” Eivor cries. 

Testing the water, you go and scoop Hjørdis from atop Eivor, quickly tugging off her stained dress and depositing her in the tub despite her protests. “The only person neither of us can best,” Eivor says, kneeling opposite of you. He leans over the side of the tub, kissing the tip of little Hjørdis’ nose before rising and stepping from your little home. 

By the time Eivor returns, Hjørdis is in a freshly sewn dress —a mix of green linen and wool, and a good color to match her golden hair, which now hangs in unruly clumps. “No,” she huffs, crossing her arms and pouting. “I want faðir to do it.” Eivor laughs, bumping your hip with his own and you step aside, letting him pick up the shell comb and finish tending to Hjørdis’ hair. He hums as he sections off her hair —the same song you had been humming at the spring. 

It does not matter how many times you watch your husband and daughter together; it always brings a swell of warmth to your heart. _Thank you, dear Frigg_ , you think _for giving me such a kind man to call my own_. Eivor ties off the braid with a thong of leather and lifts Hjørdis back onto his shoulders before holding out his hand for you to take. Coming from the heart of the settlement are drums, flutes, and singing. The first of the night’s festivities had begun —and what a good night it will be to close out a perfect day. 


	10. Eivor's Wingman

A RAVEN SWOOPS down from the grey sky and perches on your shoulder. He ruffles his feathers after the flight and drops a stalk of purple iris in your open, waiting hand. The raven croaks —a low rasping gurgle. “Thank you, Sýnin,” you muse, scritching the dark feathers under his neck. For weeks now, the raven has been bringing you flowers and small trinkets. You’ve amassed a small collection of things from him and pages filled with drying blooms. Just yesterday, he gifted you a smooth river-stone. Sýnin croaks again before jumping from your shoulder and taking to the sky. 

Eivor holds his arm out and Sýnin lands. “Did she like it?” He asks and the raven bobs his head up-and-down, hopping from foot to foot in response. Eivor Wolfsmal smiles to himself, retreating into his home to finish last-minute chores before the feast that had been called started. 

* * *

YOU SLIDE NEXT to Eivor on the bench, offering him a tankard of ale. It had been a good while since you last saw him. Either he was keeping too busy to stop for a visit, or he was purposely avoiding you for some reason. You don’t put much thought into it as tonight is for celebration not dawdling on woes. All that matters is the moment —and that means being with Eivor again. “Eivor,” you greet, smiling. 

One of your dearest friends had pointed out his lingering gaze for most of the feast. It took all your power to hide the rush of heat to your cheeks, but at least you could blame it on the mead or the warm hearths. His hand clenches into a tight fist on the table and unwittingly, you lay your hand over his —thumb running over his scarred knuckles. The tension fades and you loosely thread your fingers with his. 

Eivor has always been a silent observer, but tonight he is abnormally quiet. “Has Sýnin been behaving himself?” You ask to break the silence, already knowing the answer. During feasts, Sýnin mostly spent time amusing the children, but tonight he remains close to Eivor, reminding everyone of his presence with periodic rasping croaks from above. 

“Course not,” Eivor responds, eyeing the raven perched in the rafters. Sýnin ruffles his feathers as though protesting Eivor’s answer and holds his head proudly. He’d been doing _exactly_ as told —though some of the small gifts were of his own doing too. 

Another tankard of ale loosens his tongue and it’s easy to slip into conversations like bygone times. He speaks of his most recent hunt and asks after your practice. The old village healer and herbalist had passed on the responsibility to you —her apprentice of several long years. You’d been unfortunate enough to test your skills many times on the man sitting at your side. Eivor drapes his arm over your shoulders and it is not until the room quietens that you can hear the thundering beat of his heart near your ear. 

The hour grows late, and you’ve told one of the kennel-masters to come at dawn to have a wound cleaned and rebound. Rising from the bench to take your leave of the mead hall, you bend forward, placing a chaste kiss to Eivor’s scarred cheek. “Don’t be a stranger,” you tell him —hand still resting on his shoulder. A black shadow swoops down from the rafters, plucking one of the silver pins from your hair. You do not notice the missing pin and neither does Eivor until Sýnin drops the hairpiece into his drink with a splash, but you have already gone for the night.

* * *

THREE HEAVY KNOCKS on your door pulls you away from tending to the pot of stew over the hearth. It is later than usual for anyone to come looking for aid, but wiping your hands on your apron, you move to open the door. He fills up the doorway even without his heavy furs and leathers —perched on his shoulder is an indignant raven who had just received another scolding. “Eivor!” You exclaim, surprised to see him again so soon. 

He holds out his hand, revealing a silver hairpin resting in his palm —one of yours. “Here,” Eivor says and you take the delicate pin from him, running your thumb across the dark green stones, “this little thief plucked it from your hair at the feast.” You eye Sýnin, but the raven just croaks, tilting his head from side-to-side. 

Remembering your manners, you motion Eivor and his little thief inside. “Don’t stand out there in the cold,” you announce, smiling. A part of you is glad Sýnin had decided to steal one of your hairpins. It gives you and Eivor an excuse to be around one another again. Eivor glances around and finds an arrangement of drying flowers —a purple iris among them— and a pile of small pebbles and trinkets. Knowing you’d kept everything makes his heart jump and heat rush to his face. “Supper’s almost ready.” And there was more than enough to share.

* * *

SÝNIN NUDGES ANOTHER silver bead across the table toward Eivor. He takes the bead, stamped with _gebo_ , and threads it on the piece of wool thread. Every day for Eivor had made sure to string a bead or several. This day he would complete the silver and stone necklace after weeks of work, but it would take longer for him to find the right time to act. 

The raven picks up the final bead, this one etched with _wunjo_ and drops it in Eivor’s hand. Stringing it, he ties a knot in the small bit of exposed twine and holds it up to the hearth to look over his craftsmanship. A fine necklace and it will make a fine gift, but with a flash of black, it is taken from his hand. 

Sýnin darts into the grey sky from the door, carrying the necklace in his beak. “Get back here, thief!” Eivor shouts, pulling on a second boot as he stumbles from his home and toward a muddy road. The commotion draws the attention of half the village as he takes to chasing down the thieving raven. Yet deep down, he cannot help but be glad Sýnin acted —it will force him to admit his feelings and put the days of hesitation behind him. “Sýnin!” Eivor calls, but the raven is already out of sight, it is no matter, he already knows where his raven is going. 

A light rapping on wood draws your attention from the assortment of herbs and flowers spread out on the table. Going to the door, you crack it open —finding no one there, but then your gaze is drawn downward. Sýnin drops a silver necklace at your feet, squawking madly. You bend down, picking the piece of jewelry up as the raven scuttles between your legs and into your small house. He struts around the table, still croaking —as if he knows he is in for another scolding. “Where’d you get this from?” You ask. Sýnin tilts his head to the side, beady black eyes focusing on you.

“Eivor!” You shout, shocked to see him throwing open the door, out of breath. Sýnin peers between your legs, squawking as Eivor steps forward, crossing his arms —clearly annoyed. The raven leaps into the air, settling on your shoulder. A frown crosses your lips as you look between Eivor, the raven, and the necklace in your hand. “Sýnin did you steal this?

“Yes,” Eivor huffs, “from me.” His admission brings your attention back to him, attention piqued. Eivor rubs the back of his neck. One of his quirks when he is nervous about something. “I just finished making it,” he says, still rubbing his sweat-slick neck, clear blue gaze locked on the earthen floor. “For you,” he finally adds. 

He looks up just in time to see your wide smile —stretching up to your eyes. “It’s beautiful,” you assure him, thumb running over the beads stamped with runes. You’d seen him forging some of the silver beads himself, though at the time you assumed they would become adornments for his golden hair or beard. Eivor stands, his back rigid and heart racing. _Gods, she’s perfect_ he thinks. “Is this why you’ve been acting so strange lately?” You inquire. 

“Strange?” He challenges, despite knowing it is the truth. Before he’d come to the realization his feelings stretched beyond simple friendship, hardly a day went by when you and Eivor weren’t with one another. But he avoided you as much as he could in the past weeks —paranoid he would do or say something wrong and ruin a lifelong friendship if his sentiments were not returned. Eivor had decided he’d rather love you from afar than risk losing you for good. 

“Eivor, please,” you laugh, rolling your eyes, “we’ve barely seen one another as of late.” _I’ve missed you,_ you want to tell him, but the words get hung in your throat. He steps toward you —a rough hand reaching out to caress your cheek. He’s always been better with actions over words. Sýnin moves to the table when Eivor leans down. His beard tickles your cheek —a warning of his intentions, but you do not shy away as his lips brush against yours. 

Your hand twists into the coarse fabric of his tunic, pulling him closer. He smiles against your lips. With a sigh, Eivor draws back, but his arms slip around your waist —keeping you close. There is a soft, but almost distant look in his cool stare. His jaw clenches as he thinks about what needs to be said. “I love you.” Eivor isn’t sure if he says the words aloud or just in his head, but when you smile it gives him his answer. 

Reaching up, you trace the scar on his cheek and comb your fingers through his beard. “And I love you,” you tell him, “always have.” Eivor cranes down for another kiss, but halts when Sýnin croaks —loudly— and flaps his wings. “And of course,” you remark, scritching the dark feathers of Sýnin’s head, “I love this little thief, too.”

Eivor rolls his eyes —but he’s thankful for the raven right now, without his thievery this moment may have been lost forever. Gently, he takes the necklace still clasped in your hand and drapes it over your head. You glance down, smiling, hand instinctively reaching for bronze and silver pendant. Eivor’s arms tighten and when you look back up, he is there to kiss you again. Sýnin may have been a thief, but it is Eivor who had stolen your heart. 


	11. "I can't- I can't breathe." + "Breathe with me, okay." + "Let's calm that heart rate down."

EIVOR FREEZES WHEN he sees the brute approaching you —already on hands and knees, scrambling to recover a broken sword out of reach. He goes for one of the throwing axes on his belt, but none remain. Eivor Wolfsmal roars, steeling himself, he carves a bloody path through those blocking his way —a mangle of limbs and wailing left in his wake. 

The brute lifts you by the neck, squeezing with one hand —the other reaching for one of the daggers on his baldric. You flail aimlessly, legs kicking out and nails digging into the slick leather of his gloves, but the battle has taken its toll after a night of little sleep. Darkness seeps into your vision, mottling a twisted face with dark spots. A sharp pain erupts in your side before the darkness becomes all-consuming. Vaguely, you recognize the sensation of falling, though the impact never comes. 

Blood coats his fingers —warm and red— when he falls to his knees, reaching out to touch the broken loops of your _brynja_. The wool and mail are stained and wet. Eivor breathes your name, a faint whisper against the background of a roaring battle. A shadow approaches with a two-handed ax raised high and ready to smite. Eivor’s fingers curl around the hilt of your broken sword. Rising to his feet, he turns, driving the jagged prongs deep into the man’s neck with a loud cry —he wrenches the blade free and stumbles back to you. 

Wrapped around your neck is a dark, blossoming bruise of black and violet, Eivor grimaces as his fingers brush against the swollen flesh. Hlíf examines the bloody gash at your side and decides cleansing it with fire is the best course of action. The old crone pushes a set of irons into the flames, then sets a bucket of water and rag down next to Eivor. He needs no instruction to start wiping the blood and dirt away from your injured side. 

It does not take long for the irons to turn red-hot. Hlíf pulls one from the flames and Eivor lays one arm across your shoulders, the other over your thighs. Her hands are withered, but steady as she lays the cautery iron over the wound. You jolt, but do not wake as the putrid scent of burning flesh fills the air. Hlíf returns the iron to the fire —she will likely need to use it again before the day’s end. 

“Will she be okay?” Eivor asks, still hunched over at your side and holding one of your hands. The bruise around your neck worries him, as does how hard you fell on the battlefield. 

Hlíf grips onto his shoulder. “Only the gods know,” she answers. “All we can do is wait.” Waiting is always the hardest part. Gathering up what supplies can be spared, she returns to Eivor’s side. “Take her home,” Hlíf says, pressing a bundle of linen and a small tin into his hands. “Wash the wound twice a day and use this salve,” she tells him and Eivor nods. He carries you from the infirmary in his arms like he had done a hundred times before, though this time there is no laughter or singing and certainly no smiles.

* * *

EIVOR POKES AT his bowl of gruel —despair has a firm hold on him and is not eager to let go. Nigh a week has passed and you still show no signs of waking. Hlíf comes to check the wound on your side. It has healed nicely, though the old healer notes something must be amiss in your mind to keep you from waking now. She tells Eivor not to give up hope —you are a fighter and the gods have not taken you yet. He prays to the gods every day and makes small sacrifices to them. 

Sýnin tries his best to help too. Everyday the raven brings back wildflowers —not quite understand why you no longer ruffle his feathers and sing songs to and with him, but he thinks maybe your favorite flowers will help. Stoking the embers in the hearth back to flames, Eivor throws another two split logs onto the fire before returning to his vigilant watch at your side. He has not slept —not intentionally anyways— since the battle. 

When you wake, it is with a painful rush of air that forces you to sit upright, chest-pounding, hand going to your chest out of reflex —it still feels like there is something wrapped around your throat. “I can't–” you tremble, panting —a heavy weight pressing against your lungs “–I can’t breathe.” Eivor sits up, his eyes wide and relief flooding his tense muscles. He does not hesitate to move behind you on the bed and wrap you in a pair of strong, warm arms. 

"Breathe with me,” Eivor whispers, rocking you in his arms to the steady beat of his own heart. Your breathing slows and he can feel it reflected in the pulse against his thumb on your wrist. "Calm your heart.” His voice is rasping and soothing, but feels like a far-off dream —a foggy memory that belongs to a stranger. 

Several long moments pass —silence hangs heavy in the air. You look around. It is a small home, with only the bare essentials and a warm hearth with a raven perched on a roost above it —cocking his head and watching with black, beady eyes. Eivor moves in front of you, taking your face into his calloused and scarred hands. You think they should feel familiar too, but they do not. “Where,” you whisper, voice hoarse from disuse, “where am I?”

Confusion crosses Eivor’s expression, furrowing his brows and bringing a frown to his lips. He’s known men to wake up dazed after injuries, but it typically fades within seconds of sitting upright. But even now, you just look lost and frightened. “You’re home, my love,” he tells you, forcing himself to smile, though it does not reach the pair of clear blue eyes rimmed with unshed tears.

“Who–” you reach up, pulling his hands away from your cheeks “–who are you?” The question brings the world to a grinding halt. 

His heart drops —blood running cold and throat constricting. He cannot help but feel he has been struck in the gut by Mjölnir. “Eivor,” he answers, softly, “your husband.” But the empty look in your eyes tells him you truly do not remember.

* * *

EIVOR WOLFSMAL SAYS he loves you, though you have no memory of his love or him beyond the past weeks. He does not give up hope and he does not give up on you either. Though what strikes you is the familiarity of some everyday things —like a puzzle that is still missing pieces but is slowly being pieced together. 

The first piece falls into place one morning. Eivor drops his ax and whetstone when he hears Sýnin’s low, rasping croak in tandem with a sweet voice humming a soft melody —a lullaby your mother used to sing. And though you cannot recall the lyrics, deep down you still _know_ the song from childhood. The song you and the raven often sung together by the hearth at night. 

Another piece reveals itself when Sýnin carries a bundle of white and yellow mountain avens back one afternoon. You had given thanks to the raven with a quick kiss to his feathered head for bringing back your _favorite_ flower. 

One evening, Eivor steals you away beneath the stars and to a remote cove. When you look out over the dark water rippling with the moon’s silver reflection, it is familiar too. Deep down, you know you have been to this place many times. Eivor wears a soft smile, his gaze shifting from you to the clear night sky. “This is where we first pledged our love to one another,” he remarks —fingers brushing against the back of yours. Unwittingly, you thread your fingers with his. It feels like the right thing to do. He raises your entwined hands to his lips. 

The tender gesture sends a deep crack through your heart. For weeks, Eivor has been at your side —patient, tender, kind. Refusing to leave for anything longer than a required trip to a neighboring village. He assures you no matter what, he will always be there and will always love you. He swore to the gods to do so and he is not one to break an oath. Right now, Eivor just wants to see you happy again. But this place, his kiss, it is too much. 

Pulling your hand from his, you sink to your knees on the rock and sand, tears gathering in your eyes. He kneels, laying his hand on your shoulder. “Do you know how hard it is for me when you look at me like that and see me through all those memories?” You ask, voice trembling, sparing a glance at the man who calls himself your husband. All the smiles and tender touches only break your heart over-and-over again. “I can see all the moments we’ve ever had in your eyes, but I don’t remember. I can’t give you that anymore.” Hlíf believed this would only be temporary, but so much time had already come to pass since you awoke —a shell of your former self. 

Eivor brushes his hand across yours and gently curls his fingers around yours. _By the gods_ , you think, _he is the best man in all nine realms_. “I know,” he whispers, “but it doesn’t change my heart.” His heart would only ever belong to one person, _you_. Above, Sýnin lets out a forlorn cry. 

One a cold night several moons later Eivor wakes —sensing something is wrong. He glances at the far edge of the bed, finding you curled into yourself shivering. He moves close to the center of the straw-stuffed mattress and wraps his arms around your waist, drawing you into his chest and pulling up a quilt of patched pelts. The warmth against your back and surrounding you is comforting and for the first time since you had woken from the weeklong slumber, the small little house begins to feel like home. Another piece of the puzzle finds its place. 

Another day passes and so comes another night —but this night is filled with stars and the first of the faint green glow of the _norðrljós_. Eivor knows you love to see the lights, even now. He guides you up onto a flat, rocky outcrop atop a hill not far from the village and his home. He settles next to you on the smooth rockface, laying back and gazing upward. A smile tugs at his lips when he feels your fingers slip into his. You may not have your memory back, but it hadn’t been hard to fall in love again with Eivor Wolfsmal. 

The peaceful silence is interrupted by Sýnin —squawking and strutting back and forth over a line of carved runes. Eivor recognizes them immediately, you and he had both been the ones to carve the writing in stone the night you wed. He does not say anything but you lean forward and run your fingers over the runes —and like a great wave crashing upon a beaten shore you are swept into a sea of memory. The remaining pieces of the puzzle fall into place. 

Your body quakes and trembles at the revelations —a tear rolling down your cheek, staining the white rock grey. Drawing in a slow breath, you glance at the raven and smile. Somehow Sýnin knows —the change is reflected in his soft call before he leaps into the night sky as a blur of gleaming blue-black. “ _Mun þú mek_ ,” you whisper. At first, Eivor is sure his ears are playing him for a fool, but you repeat the line a second time, this time your voice is firmer. You _mean_ it. 

“ _Man ek þek_ ,” Eivor echoes, reciting the next line —his smile is wide and bright enough to rival the sun. It was the last thing you had said to one another before the battle —what you said to each other before _every_ battle on and off the battlefield. He moves closer, brushing aside the hair in front of your face. Laughing, you throw your arms around him. Eivor wraps you in his arms, his face buried in your neck. “ _Unn þú mér_ ,” he breathes, holding you close. 

When he sits back, his cheeks are streaked with tears —his golden beard damp. Eivor had never given up hope and now the gods had answered his prayers. You rest your hand on his cheek, thumb following the scar that lay there. Reflected in both your eyes is a lifetime of memories —the day you wed, the night you and he snuck away during a feast, finding a small abandoned raven hatchling in the forest. It is _all_ there again —the pieces are firmly locked into place. “ _Ann ek þér_ ,” you finish, fingers lightly combing through his disheveled beard. 

Eivor Wolfsmal smiles again and leans forward —pressing his forehead against yours, his arms still loosely wrapped around your middle. “I love you,” you repeat. Over the months, he’d spoken those words repeatedly, but never heard them in return until now. His warm breath dances across your cheeks and lips. All it takes is you tilting your chin up for your lips to brush against his. He returns the soft kiss with one of his own —breaking apart you meet his clear, blue gaze and feel your heart fill with warmth. Eivor laughs, a low, rumbling sound from deep in his gut when you wrap your arms around his shoulders again —this time he leans back, pulling your down with him, still tucked into his broad and warm chest. 

You glance back to the sky with the bright stars and shimmering green-blue lights and let out a small sigh, but Eivor’s gaze is still focused entirely on you. After a long moment, he looks to the night sky again too, and says a silent prayer to the gods, thanking them for returning your memories. You offer a prayer to the gods too. _Thank you, dearest Frigg, for letting me have a husband like Eivor_. Shifting, you lay your head on his chest. _And thank you, Freyja, for giving me the chance to fall in love with the same man twice_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mun þú mek, man ek þek; unn þú mér, ann ek þér is Old Norse for “Remember me, I remember you; love me, I love you.”


	12. Training with Eivor and things get heated.

SPLINTERS FROM THE wooden staff dig into your palms —hands tightening around the training staff as Eivor circles you. He wields the same training staff, eyes narrowed as he anticipates your first move. Thrusting the blunt end of the staff toward his gut, Eivor knocks it away and reciprocates with a tight swing of the staff —you spin out of the way, smiling. The wood _clanks_ together over-and-over, interrupting the silence around your shared home in the woods, neither of you able to gain the upper hand. He has strength, but you are nimble and able to evade many of his blows.

Dodging another blow, you slip into arm’s reach before he can recover the lost momentum and lay the tip of the staff against his chest. Eivor glances down —disbelieving he had been off-guard so easily and quickly. “Off with it,” you laugh. It was a game you and Eivor had devised, even if you both claimed it was training. He steps back unfastening the pelt of brown-black fur on his shoulders and drapes it over the rails of a split wooden fence. Stooping down, he picks up the training staff and settles into a warrior’s stance again. 

He feints and you bring the staff up to block a blow that never comes. Instead, Eivor swats your thigh. “Off with it,” he echoes with a low, rumbling chuckle. Sýnin croaks, disproving of Eivor’s tricks. You untie the short, wool cloak and place it next to Eivor’s fur mantle, patting the raven’s noggin too, before returning to the match at hand. 

You block a strike from above, though before you can bring the staff back to an offensive position, Eivor has hit your forearm. Frowning, you move to the fence on which the raven still sits, watching the ordeal with attentive dark eyes. “That’s cheating,” Eivor grumbles as you untie the laces and step out of your patched wool breeches. You were meant to remove the linen tunic —that is where he had struck you, after all. He bites down on his bottom lip regardless, eyes narrowing as they trail up the length of your calves and thighs. Warmth stirs inside him, and impatient to have you squirming beneath him. 

“Don’t want you getting too distracted,” you muse with a wink, taking up the training staff again. Bare feet twisting in the soft earth, you crouch then lunge. Sýnin squawks, providing the distraction you need to push the staff into his shoulder. Eivor staggers back, silently cursing the raven and his false alarm. Had it been a true battle such a blow could have been fatal. 

Dragging, the faded blue tunic overhead, he tosses it aside. Eivor’s lips kink into a cocky smile when he notices your gaze. You cannot help but steal a lingering glance at the broad planes of his chest and the thick, corded muscles of his arms —adorned with dark, blue-black tattoos encircling his forearms and biceps. Snapping out of your stupor, you readjust your grip on the staff. He does the same. 

Eager to be done with this sparring session, Eivor swings the staff, knocking you to the dirt with a dull _thud_. He is quick to straddle your thighs before pinning your hands next to your head. Unabashedly, he takes in the view before him —your chest heaving with exertion, a glowing sheen covering your face and neck, and how wild your hair looks against the dark earth. Eivor bends forward, his beard tickling your jaw and cheek, pulling a soft laugh from you. “I think this means I won,” he remarks. 

You will not give him the satisfaction of besting you again. Drawing your legs up against his sides and locking your ankles around his waist, you twist. He rolls onto his back with you atop him —hands braced on his chest. Leaning down, you kiss him. His and your lips synced together, both sighing into the fervent kiss. Eivor’s hands slide over your sides, hips —still covered by a thin linen tunic— and around to your bare bottom, which he gives a light squeeze. “The game isn’t over yet,” you tease. 

“Hmm–” his chest rumbles beneath your palms “–I think I can still win this game though.” Eivor sits up, wrapping his arms around your waist. When he stands, he slings your weight over his shoulder —marching off toward the small wood-and-stone home after giving your bottom a good, playful slap. Pushing the door open with his foot, Eivor is quick to move to the bed, tossing you into the mound of pelts strewn over the bed. Before you can take the moment to sink into the warmth and comfort, he shackles your ankles with his hands, drawing you to the edge of the mattress.

His hands —rough and calloused from working a plow and ax— slide from your ankles up the length of your legs and beneath the tunic still clothing you. He pushes the thin garment overhead and is quick to untie the band of wool binding your chest, going straight for your breasts. Cupping them and pulling your nipples to taut peaks with the rough pads of his thumbs. Eivor listens as your breath hitches, turning into soft pants and even quieter moans. He leans over you, kissing a line across your cheek and to your lips. Slipping farther to the edge of the bed, you can feel his hard cock against your stomach, separated by his coarse wool pants. 

“Lay back,” he says —voice gruff and heady. He intends to make sure he comes out of his game victorious. His tongue and lips cascade down the valley of your breasts to the edge of your navel before he sinks to his knees and draws your legs over his shoulders. The wet kisses on the inside of your thighs tingle more than the drag of his teeth. Eivor sits back on his haunches. Your legs are open wide for him and the effects of his kisses and caresses are evident.

Leaning forward, Eivor plants a soft kiss to your clit then turns his head, letting you feel the roughness of his beard scraping the inside of your thigh. You cannot see him, but your hands move into his hair out of instinct, mussing his golden braids. His tongue slips from his mouth and presses down onto your clit, working its way between your folds and dipping into your warmth. A sharp breath is pulled from your lungs, back arching off the bed. His hands hold your thighs open, pressing into your hips —Eivor smiles against your cunt and brinks you to the edge, denying the release. 

You curse him as eases your legs back down. His hands pushing down his breeches as he rises —fingers wrapping around his cock, stroking as he gazes into your eyes. “Enough of that,” you pant, reaching toward him, “fuck me.” Eivor gives a breathy laugh at your impatience and climbs onto the bed, settling between your thighs, but he is not ready to give up _this_ game so easily. 

The smile on his lips doubles in size when he presses his thumb to your clit, rubbing in slow circles —with his other hand, he drags the head of his cock through your slick folds, over-and-over, sliding in a fraction of an inch before drawing out and repeating the motion. “Eivor,” you hiss. His hand slides up to your breast, but you are distracted by the feel of him circling your clit with his cock, gently tapping the sensitive bundle before giving in to your wishes. 

Guiding himself into your tight warmth. He wants you to feel all of him. Every stretch, every vein, and every nerve. _Everything_. Eivor Wolfsmal is a man of commitment and the way he makes love shows it. Stilling, he clenches his teeth —clear eyes boring down into your own. He rocks his hips into yours, a steady rhythm of slow, deep strokes. 

With one hand, he draws your thigh up his side, you take the hint and lock your ankles behind his back, heels pressing into his lower back. You push up on your forearms, seeking his lips —Eivor yields, pressing you back into the furs with his kiss. _Fuck me_ , you had pleaded, but this is more akin to making love and Eivor has a game he wants to win. Breaking the kiss, he draws back. You whimper and the loss of his weight and empty feeling between your thighs. There is a wicked glint in his eyes, though. 

“On your knees,” Eivor pants, flipping you onto your stomach before you have a chance to do so and is quick to sheath his cock back into your warmth. Leaning forward, he lays a neat line of kisses along your spine —a gentle juxtaposition against the bruising grip he has on your hips. Eivor groans when you press back against him. He starts slow again, pushing forward and pulling your hips back at the same time —listening to the little cries and moans escaping your lips. 

Eivor’s jaw clenches when he glances down, watching his cock slips in-and-out your wet heat. Groaning, he readjusts his hold on your hips and begins driving into you —hard and fast. Your jaw falls slack feeling his hips slap against your bottom, his cock dragging along your fluttering walls with everywhere thrust. Giving in to the pleasure, your press your face into the pile of grey and brown pelts —it muffles your cries and moans, but Eivor can still hear them, like sweet music. 

His grip on your hips vanishes but quickly move elsewhere. One of his hands snakes around to where your bodies are joined, rubbing your clit with tight circles. The other slips to your breasts. Using the leverage, Eivor pulls your back up against his stomach and slides the hand to loosely grip your throat, still rutting into you like a feral beast. The cry that leaves your lips is silent but then your head falls back to his shoulder —his breath is hot and heavy against your neck. “Eivor,” you whimper, the tightened coil in your belly is ready to give. 

Bending an arm above your head, you thread your fingers into his messy golden hair, tugging lightly at the roots. Your other hand finds purchase on his back —nails digging into his warm flesh. Eivor kisses your neck, suckling before biting down, hard. The suddenness of the burst of pain sends a wave washing over you. He feels your walls clamp around his cock and your whole-body tense against his. 

Eivor loses what little restraint is left within him and continues pounding into you —panting and grunting at your ear. Then he slows and with three, strong and deep thrusts you can feel his cock twitch within you and a surge of warmth. He curses, both hands settling back to your hips when he feels you clench around him again and roll your hips. 

Pulling out, Eivor flips you onto your back, burying himself back into your warmth. His thumb presses against your clit again as his hips roll into yours. Your face is flush, lips swollen and parted —a glorious sight to behold. Eivor caresses your cheek before settling his lips against yours. His kiss is long and gentle, filled with love and adoration. The slow drag of cock and the pressure of his calloused thumb brings you toppling over another precipice. He is certain he has won now, but if a rematch is needed, he will not object.

Everything slows —yours and his labored breathing, the frantic beat of your hearts. He meets your eyes and smiles. “I yield,” you laugh, pressing your hand against his chest. Eivor rolls to the side and your laugh is echoed by his warm, low chuckle. “You win,” you tell him, propping your chin upon his chest. It only strokes his ego. His fingers trace runes over your shoulder before running over your spine —the sensation sends a chill through your body despite the warmth. Eivor cranes his head down, kissing you again. He _had_ won because he had _you_. 


	13. “You’re hair is really soft after you wash it.” + “Ssh. Stop fussing. I’m just braiding your hair.”

EIVOR WOLFSMAL RETURNS at the edge of dark covered in filth. He left before dawn with a group of hunters in pursuit of a beast rumored to be lurking near the settlement. It would be best to put the beast down before it started causing trouble with the livestock and people. When he steps into the firelight, it is a mixture of blood and mud marring his leathers and staining his golden hair and beard. You point him to a chair near the table after telling him to strip —away from your loom and drying clothes. His clothes will have to wait to be washed for now. 

It is by luck alone you had been preparing a bath for yourself, but Eivor now needs one far more than you. Dumping the last kettle of steaming water into the wooden tub, you motion for him to get in. He wanted to be greeted with a kiss, but given his current state and foul smell, he cannot blame you. Eivor splashes water onto his face and scrubs away the muck. You stoke the fire in the hearth before moving next to the bath with a cake of soap and a boar bristle brush. 

He takes the soap from you and rubs it between his hands until it lathers. While he scrubs his beard, arms, and legs with the bristle brush, you bring one of the table chairs and sit behind him. Taking a seat, you reach for his hair and start to undo his braids —setting aside the beads, rings, and leather thongs he had adorning his golden locks. Unbound, his hair falls past his shoulders. With your fingers, you work through the largest knot, humming the soft tune of a lullaby. 

Dipping a stone pitcher into the tub, you pour water over his head. He grumbles and you laugh at his churlish protest. It takes three pitchers to soak his hair, but then you lean forward, taking the cake of soap from him and begin working it into a lather through his hair. Eivor leans against the wooden bath, head tilted back as you massage his scalp. “Your fingers are magic, _kjære min_ ,” he breathes. You smile and place a short kiss on his forehead. These little moments do nothing but make you love him more —the gods had been kind to let you marry a man like Eivor Wolfsmal. 

Dumping several pitchers over his head washes the suds and grime away and into the dirty bathwater. Pleased with the cleanliness of his hair, you wash his shoulders and back. Stopping to trace over the few scars, fingers brushing over the rough patch of skin on his back —a burn from some time ago. You can hear his sharp intake of air when your fingers are replaced by the soft warmth of your lips. 

He shifts, turning back to look at you from over his shoulder. “Will you kiss me now that I’m clean?” Eivor asks with a low, rough laugh. Smiling, you lean toward him and he closes the remaining gap —pressing his lips against yours. His damp hand slides back into your hair, pulling you closer. Parting, you lift your hand to his cheek, tracing over the scar running down his cheek —hand dropping down to comb through his wet beard. 

“You should have seen the beast,” Eivor remarks, lifting his arms above his head of mimic the size of the slain bear. You listen to the tale. It will be told again by others during the next gathering on the settlement. The antler comb catches on another knot to be worked out. He pretends to shove a spear forward —skewering the beast. He had struck the first major blow and the bear was easily felled by the hunting party. You run your fingers through his hair, pleased to find there is nary a knot left. Setting the comb aside, you wrap your arms around his middle from behind and lean over Eivor’s shoulder, kissing his cheek. 

Before the warm hearth, you share a small meal —crusty brown bread and smashed blackberries from brambles in the forest. By the time you both discard the dirtied bathwater and clean up after the meal, the hour is late. Eivor yawns, he has been awake since before the break of dawn. The silence within the small home is broken by the low, gurgling croak of Sýnin, finding his perch above the hearth and preening his damp feathers. 

Eivor draws you toward the bed, working the ties of your woolen dress free. Crawling over him, you settle into the mattress, wrapping a blanket around your shoulders. “Your hair is always soft after it’s washed,” you tell him, smiling as you brush aside the golden strands falling in front of his face. His hair is often bound in braids and it is easy to forget how well the golden strands frame his face —making him seem less a fierce warrior and more of an overgrown whelp. He catches your wrist, placing a soft kiss to the center of your palm. Gathering a clump of the golden hair, you split it into three parts —weaving the strands into a simple braid to keep the hair from his face. He mumbles something, half-asleep already. “Stop fussing,” you laugh, “I’m just braiding your hair.” 

Eivor swats your hands away, quickly engulfing you with his arms —warm and strong. “You can do that in the morning,” he tells you, nuzzling his nose into your neck. There will be plenty of time for you to fix his hair in the morn. You relax in his embrace, laying your head against his chest. The steady and strong beat of his heart is a comfort. For now, Eivor Wolfsmal just wants to rest after a long day and hold the woman he loves in his arms. 


	14. A Little Farmhand

THE PALE TUNIC clings to his chest and arms as he works the plough, turning up dark, fertile earth. Eivor finishes another row and straightens his back, wiping the sweat from his brow. He looks over his shoulder at the line —almost straight— and finds you a few paces behind him, sowing seeds of wheat and barley. It is hard work between the two of you and takes several days to plant everything, enough to have stores to last through the winter. Tying off the satchel on your hip filled with seeds, you move toward Eivor —reaching up to brush the dirt from his cheeks. The work may be hard, but it is worth it in the end. 

Though, there has been a budding idea in Eivor’s mind that could help lessen the workload for springs to come. He lays his dirtied hands on your hips, drawing you close into his chest. “ _Elskede mitt_ ,” he begins, an endearment often used whenever he has done something you advised him against or is planning mischief. “What if,” his voice trails off as his clear gaze shifts from the cloudy sky back to you, “we made a little farmhand?” There is a glint in his eyes, and you cannot help but smile —pushing up to meet him a quick kiss to seal the proposition. 

By mid-afternoon, the field is ploughed, and the seeds are sown. The work has been done, but now the gods will decide if the crops grow or wither. Both you and Eivor are covered in the day’s sweat, mud sticking to your clothes and skin. Nothing sounds better than a good bath to wash away the sweat and woes, but he has a place in mind other than the wooden tub. Eivor takes your hand, leading you from the homestead and to a familiar path in the forest. 

Water lapping at a rocky shore breaks the silence as you and Eivor emerge from the foliage and onto the beach of the small cove. Nothing has changed since the last time you were here. This had always been yours and Eivor’s spot —a quiet place away from the village. There is a small island out from the shoreline where seals come to rest in the winter months, though now that spring has arrived and the water warms it leaves the rocky edifice rising from the dark water bare. “It’s been ages since we came here,” you muse with a tinge of sadness, it had been so long since you and Eivor escaped the duties life demanded. 

“You remember sneaking off at night?” Eivor asks, wrapping one of his arms around your middle and pulling you back into his chest. His beard tickles your cheek when he places a short kiss to your temple. It was a favorite pastime for you and Eivor when you were both younger —sneaking off at odd hours of the day and night. Most of the time you ended up here. Swimming and playing with the seals. It was even here that you and he had shared a clumsy first kiss —that feels like a lifetime ago. 

Laughing, you turn around and look up, meeting his soft gaze. “I remember my father almost catching us,” you remark. There had been several times when your father nearly caught you sneaking out or returning just before dawn with Eivor Wolfsmal trailing alongside you with that cantankerous raven of his. In retrospect, all those late nights and early mornings did not matter once Eivor approached your father, asking to court you with his and the gods’ blessings. Courtship turned to marriage —no one in the little village could say they were surprised, you and Eivor had always been attached at the hip, never far from one another. 

Reaching up, you unclasp one of the brooches holding up a scarlet woolen outer-dress, but before you can do the other, Eivor beats you to it and against his hands the gold and amber brooch is minuscule. He watches, eyes never straying as you shrug off your stained pale-blue shift —laying it across a boulder with your short outer-dress. Rough hands trail along your sides, sending a shiver down your back. Eivor leaves a line of kisses along your shoulder as he reaches to unbind the strip of wool covering your chest, placing it with the rest of your clothes. 

“Go on,” he says, nudging you toward the water and giving your bottom a playful swat. Looking over your shoulder, you see him tugging off his boots and starting with the ties on his breeches. He will join you in a moment, and for now, you focus on scrubbing away the signs of hard day’s work. Sýnin flies overhead, croaking and keeping watch. 

Eivor wades through the cool water, stopping just shy of you to take a moment and wash away the dirt and sweat. You tell him to turn and scrub his shoulders and back —leaving a quick kiss just below where his jaw and ear meet. 

You drape your arms over his shoulders, using him for leverage to keep above the water’s surface. “So,” you start, lips twisting upward into a smile, “about making a little helper.” The same glint from earlier comes rushing back to his clear blue eyes. Dipping your head forward, you steal a kiss and his hands slide from your waist down to your thighs —grip tightening. “Let’s not wait any longer,” you breathe. Eivor presses his face into your neck, giddy with joy, and heads back to the shoreline —carrying you from the sea. 

He lays you back on his hastily spread cloak and hovers over you, rubbing the calloused pad of his thumb over your cheek and down across your bottom lip. “ _Ek ann þér_ ,” he says, softly —leaning forward to capture your sweet lips with his, your kisses are something he will never tire of. Your hand tangles into his golden locks —half-undone from the braids, tugging on them makes him groan. 

Eivor kisses the corner of your lips, over to your cheek and down the column of your neck. He nips at the vein on your throat, drawing a soft whimper from your parted lips. The sweet sound sends a rush of hot blood and need pulsing through his body. Your hand is still tangled in his hair and a light pull at the roots causes him to groan against your chest. 

The short reprieve does not last before Eivor begins lavishing your breasts with more kisses and gentle touches, bringing both your nipples to taut peaks with his lips and tongue. He is worshiping as a goddess, because to him you are one. 

A hand slides over your belly, then lower, fingers lightly caressing the slickness gathering on you folds as he returns his lips to yours. “Eivor,” you breathe, his name turning into a low moan when he slips one finger into your heat. Watching and feeling your body’s reaction to his touch is enough to make his hard cock begin to weep. Eivor shifts and you can feel the heavy weight of his cock resting against your thigh as he adds a second finger and presses his thumb against your clit —rubbing slow, uneven circles. 

Reaching between you and Eivor, your hand finds his cock —fingers wrapping around the thick shaft. He presses his forehead into your shoulder with a strangled moan when you begin to stroke him. The rhythm of his fingers faltering. “Eivor,” you say again, voice huskier than normal. He lifts his gaze to you and understands —you both need and want each other. You whine softly as he pulls his fingers from your warmth and pushes the hand stroking his cock away. 

Eivor moves over you, settling between your legs. He bends down, lips finding yours again as he slides the head of his cock through your folds, teasing until you lift your hips, impatient. A string of hushed curses falls from his lips as he presses into you —sinking deep into your warmth until his hips are flush against yours. 

For a moment, neither of you move nor say anything. Eivor rests his right forearm next to your head, his lips brushing over yours as he draws his hips back then pushes forward again. His hand cups your cheek, thumb running across your cheekbone —the other holding tightly onto your hip as you both move against each other in sync with the crashing waves. 

Your nails dig into his biceps and with each thrust your breasts press tighter to the musculature of his chest. Eivor dips his head down, teeth scraping over your neck —just above a thrumming pulse. Your body involuntarily reacts, arching into him, legs wrapping around his waist, pulling him closer every time he rolls his hips into yours. His fingertips press hard into your thighs, sure there will be bruises blossoming within the next hours despite how gentle he tries to be. You do not care about the bruises though —only focusing on the way his cock feels sliding in-and-out, a slow drag against your walls. Eivor buries his head into your breasts, nipping and suckling at the tender flesh, determined to leave marks. 

He grunts. His arm slipping around to your bottom, tilting your hips up. Eivor groans and grunts, expression twisted as your name falls from lips. Each thrust hits something deep inside you, and the pressure and friction of his public bone against your clit is too much. You shudder and gasp as your muscles begin to tighten, heels pressing firmly into his back. Soft pants turn to ragged moans —Eivor’s name on your lips like a sacred prayer. The moment washes over you like waves. You cling to him, pressing your face into his shoulder —mouth agape as he continues to move. But his pace stumbles and the strangled moan reverberating through your entire being is the only warning before you feel his cock twitch within you and a pulse of warmth. 

Breathing heavily, Eivor rolls his hips your thrice more before stilling. Bracing his weight on his hands, he looks over you —lips rosy, cheeks flushed, a sheen of sweat on your heaving chest in the last golden rays of the night. “I love you,” he murmurs again, never tiring of how you smile when he says the words. Sighing, he rolls to the side and you whine at the loss of him and the empty feeling between your thighs. 

His arms snake around your waist, drawing you into his side —legs tangled together. Smiling, you trail your fingers over the scar on his cheek and the blue-black raven tattoo above his ear, following the dark design. Eivor watches you, transfixed. Careening forward, he presses his lips against yours —hands sliding up you back. “I love you too,” you breathe upon breaking the kiss. A part of you had always loved Eivor Wolfsmal, even when you were both children. On a nearby boulder, Sýnin croaks. You will have to remind the raven you still love him too. 

You curl into Eivor’s chest, surrounded by the warmth and comfort of his arms as the sun dips below the horizon. “I’m not ready to go back,” you tell him, tracing a line between two freckles on his shoulder. There is something about this small cove that makes it hard to leave —perhaps it is all the memories you have made here and tonight you hope to have made another.

“Then we can stay here,” Eivor mumbles into your temple, his fingers running up-and-down your back, “under the stars.” It is a clear night with a full moon and a thousand stars pocking the dark sky. Shifting in his arms, you turn your gaze skyward —following a pattern of stars resembling a hunter and another like a twisted serpent. Eivor lays quietly beside you, holding you close. Only when a flash of light streaks across the sky does he point it out. 

Eivor is completely at ease after the long day —a soft smile lingering on his lips. “This was a good idea,” you tell him, propping yourself up to look over him. “You look handsome in the moonlight.” He rolls his eyes at the compliment and wraps his arm around you again before rolling onto his back, pulling you atop him. Eivor kisses you again before you can say anything else. 

* * *

BEFORE IT IS time to reap the harvest, you start to notice the subtle and gradual changes in your body. When you are certain of what is happening, you think of how to tell Eivor. One night after he had a long day of aiding with negotiations and planning new raids, you approach him where he sits at the table —looking over a fading map with a flickering lantern. “Eivor.” He makes a low sound in the back of his throat, not fully giving you his attention until you lift one of his hands from the table and place it over your middle. The first signs of a bump were starting to show, though your shifts still did well to hide it. 

Eivor’s brows settle into a furrow before the realization takes him. “You–” he starts, gaze moving from your belly and up to see a wide grin. You nod —certain now that you are with child. His lips twist into a smile and he rises, so quickly the bench almost falls over. Eivor’s rough hands cradle your face, thumbs running over your cheeks —overjoyed and laughing as he presses his lips to yours. _I’m going to be a father,_ he thinks, and it makes his heart swell and beat quicker. Breaking the kiss, he sinks to his knees and rests both his hands on your belly. Leaning forward, Eivor whispers a soft promise to your child and cannot stop the tears welling in his eyes.

* * *

EIVOR WOLFSMAL LEANS back against the wide tree trunk and crosses his arms with a smile and a distant look in his eyes. High-pitched laughing breaks him from reminiscing on the past any longer. Now he focuses on the present. A little girl nearing five summers with blonde hair and blue eyes tackles you in the field of wildflowers with Sýnin squawking from a nearby branch. Her laugh is joined by yours as you roll through the flowers and spring up to your feet. You eye your husband with a smile and nudge your daughter forward after bending to whisper something in her ear. 

Hjørdis darts forward, tugging on her father’s arm. Eivor rises and scoops her up into his arms, bringing her back into the center of the meadow where you stand —bathed in the sun’s golden light. He sets little Hjørdis back to her feet and rises like a great bear, chasing her around until she tires. Brushing the grass from Hjørdis’ golden locks your lay back into the flowers too. Eivor looks at his daughter, where she rests between the two of you, but then his gaze finds yours. 

You smile at him and he returns your smile with an even larger one. The gods had been too kind to give him such a woman to call his wife and such a fierce little warrior to call a daughter. He reaches across Hjørdis and takes your hand, leaning to place a soft kiss in the center of your palm. Eivor Wolfsmal has everything he could ever wish for in this life right next to him.


	15. Eivor is a stubborn patient with unspoken feelings.

"BE CAREFUL, EIVOR," you tell him standing on the docks as he helps pack one of the longships for the summer raids. He has only just recovered from a rancid cut on his calf not even a fortnight ago. The stubborn fool tried to hide the wound until you saw him emptying his stomach outside the feast hall and staggering back toward his small home on the outskirts of the village without having touched a single drop of ale.

His lips twitch into a smile beneath his golden beard. "Always am," he replies, confident. As the healer's apprentice you know even the strongest of men can be brought down by a single arrow. You worry for Eivor Wolfsmal and all the warriors setting off today, but Eivor is both obstinate and cocksure, two traits often leading to injury in battle. He knows you worry though, and after loading the last barrel of water into the ship, Eivor reaches for your hands —delicate against his rough paws. "I promise," he says, voice softer than before.

Pleased with his oath, you smile and take another step closer, rising up on your toes —lips ghosting over his scarred cheeks. A promise and a farewell until next you meet. His clear eyes slip close at the featherlight touch and his heart skips a beat but the words on his tongue fade back into silence. He had fancied you for years, but never knew the right words to say —the timing never felt right either. A red-pink flush of color spans across his cheeks. Eivor lowers his gaze and steps back, letting your hands slip from his as others brush past you to-and-from the ships.

The longships set off from the docks into the Kattegat before the sun rises, but Sýnin lingers at your side for a moment longer. Eivor looks back from the stern, watching as his home and you shrink on the horizon. You sit on the end of the dock, bare feet skimming the cool, dark water until the small fleet of longships passes out of sight.

Sighing, you retreat back into the village and to help the healer, Ingibjǫrg. There is still work to be done, even in times of peace. Ingibjǫrg had been kind enough to take you in as her apprentice at a young age —starting with simple tasks like gathering herbs and flowers, grinding poultices, and caring for the cautery tools. Though now, she trusts you to work at her side as an equal, but the old crone still fondly calls you her apprentice.

Time passes slowly during the raiding season. The women and elders are more diligent than their hotheaded sons and daughters, leading to few and minor injuries to care for during the days. It gives you ample time to sure-up the stores of supplies when the ships return. On a narrow trail overlooking the harbor, you spot the first of the longships, a scarlet sail emerging from the evening mist —then a second and third. The call of a great horn announces their return as you race back down the trail and along the rocky shore toward the docks.

All of the longships return, docking along the wharf and the victorious warriors disembark with their newfound riches and reunite with waiting spouses and children —few have been lost to battle this time. You search for Eivor, having seen Sýnin pass overhead and heard the raven's call. You find him and three others bearing Arne on a makeshift stretcher with scraps of linen and wool bound tightly around his leg and middle. He offers a fleeting smile as you usher them to Ingibjǫrg.

Moving Arne onto a cot near the hearth, all but Eivor take their leave. You quickly help Ingibjǫrg do away with the soiled dressings and strip him of his broken mail and clothes. Neither of the wounds are severe, though they have begun to fester. He whimpers when she lays a hot cloth over each of the gashes, but you turn your attention to Eivor —shuffling on his feet. "Eivor?" You ask, noticing the sweat on his brow and the pallid color of his cheeks.

"I'm fine," he assures you, noting the concern in your tone and kind eyes. Eivor doesn't like it when people worry over him, especially you —you have enough to worry over with helping Ingibjǫrg.

Stepping to him, you lift your hand to his clammy forehead and frown. He is burning up to the touch. "No, you're not," you tell him, "you're fevered." Too often you had seen fevers turn deadly from neglect. A fever could be like an arrow, even the strongest of men were not immune to its deadly grasp.

"It's nothing," Eivor protests, but you both know it is a lie. The return journey was delayed by a two-day storm and he sacrificed many of his own rations for Arne's sake, taking little time to rest from rowing. Your frown deepens.

Ingibjǫrg wipes her hands on her apron and looks over at where you and Eivor stand, having heard the brief conversation. "See to it that he gets a good meal and rest," the old healer says —she can tend to Arne herself. "Too long at sea makes one ripe for sickness." Eivor knows better than to protest Ingibjǫrg's wisdom. Taking his hand, you lead him through the muddy streets and back to your little house —the one closest to the rocky shore with a soft pillar of smoke rising from the duab roof.

You push the door open and, greeted by the scent of a pot of stew with pork, cabbage, leeks, and thyme that'd been cooking over the hearth since dawn. Sýnin takes to a ceiling joint, perching above and Eivor sits on the low wooden bench near the fire and sighs, eyes slipping shut with a soft groan. It feels like he could sleep for a week without waking though his rumbling stomach reminds him there will be no rest yet. You pass Eivor a heaping bowl of the hot stew to go along with a hunk of brown bread and cup of watered ale, sitting next to him with your own helping.

Eivor ladles out another bowlful of the stew and watches as you move around the single-room home —setting a pot of water over the hearth in place of the stew. You take out several small sashes of dried herbs and place them in a cup, tamping the assortment with the end of a wooden spoon. He can vaguely make out the scent of garlic.

When the water begins to steam, you dip the cup into the pot and leave the fever tonic to steep —the stronger the better— before turning your attention back to him. "What are you doing?" He asks, looking up when you reach to unclasp the damp fur mantle around his shoulders.

Rolling your eyes, you lay the pelt aside to dry and start at the leather laces on his chest. His clear blue eyes studying your every move and committing the small wrinkles around your lips and eyes to memory. "These damp clothes aren't helping you, Eivor," you chide, continuing to untie his leather jerkin. A flush of color unrelated to the fever rises to his cheeks at how close you are to him —his heart starts to beat faster, too. Batting away your hands, Eivor sets about stripping off the rest of his damp clothes.

Rummaging around in a wooden chest, you pull out a spare tunic belonging to Eivor. You'd kept it for years, never quite knowing when he would turn up at your door. He pulls the scarlet tunic overhead and lets out a long sigh, stretching his now bare legs toward the fire —much like the rest of him, Eivor's thighs are strong, corded with muscle. Ignoring his current state of undress, you hand him the freshly brewed tonic.

He sniffs the drink and scrunches up his face, looking up from the wooden cup to you as you unbind your hair from a braid. "You're trying to kill me," he deadpans. The mixture of wild garlic and caraway does not smell pleasant, but you know the old remedy works —Ingibjǫrg wouldn't brew the tonic if it didn't.

You laugh, shaking your head. "If I were–" your fingers catch on a knot "–you'd be dead already, Eivor Wolfsmal." Pinching his nose, he downs the warm tonic in a single gulp and quickly washes it down with another cup of ale. Taking the empty cup, you nudge him toward the small bed against the wall —a straw-stuffed mattress with a handful of pelts and wool blanket you'd spent the greater part of a year weaving. Before he rises from the bench you kiss his temple. "Get some rest," you tell him.

"Mmm," he grumbles, gripping onto your wrist when you turn away, "not without you." He blames the boldness of his words on the fever and ale but fails to hide his smile when you pull him to the bed and lay next to him.

EIVOR ENTERS THE healer's quarters and immediately Ingibjǫrg is pointing you in his direction. She is in the middle of preparing a poultice and tonic for the Jarl's sickly daughter, but even if she wasn't Eivor had always been your charge. Wiping your hands on the front of your dress you look him over. He does not appear sick, nor does there seem to be any signs of a grievous injury save for the blood on his hand. Sýnin croaks, perched upon his shoulder —watching you closely.

Since returning from the raids, Eivor had frequented you and Ingibjǫrg more often for minor things. The old healer was the first to notice the change, but it is not until this moment you truly recognize what he is doing. He holds out his hand revealing a slim cut in his palm —his axe had slipped from his grasp while splitting wood. "This little cut?" You ask, soft smile bordering on a smirk. He nods and you lead him over to a small table and bench, gathering a pitcher of water and a clean strip of linen. Sitting across from Eivor, you clean and bind the wound and send him off with a kiss upon the cheek —the only patient who gets such special treatment.

EARLY ONE MORNING Eivor shows up at your door. You lift your brow in silent question and cross your arms over your chest to preserve some modesty in the threadbare linen shift. He rubs the scarred patch of skin on the back of his neck and looks down at his feet, giving a small cough that sounds like a child feigning to be sick to get out of chores. "Was wondering," his voice trails off, "if you could make some more of that stew? Been coughing an awful lot."

Motioning him into your home, you shuffle around in a small box of herbs, ointments, and ceramic vials of prepared tonics. Uncorking one, you hand it to Eivor —a challenge to see if he will admit his true intentions of coming to disturb your slumber. "Drink some of this then."

It smells even worse than the garlic and caraway tonic you made when he _was_ sick and Eivor imagines it will taste even worse. "I'd rather not," he objects, pushing your hand away.

Replacing the stopper and returning the vial to its place, you step back in front of Eivor, laying your hand on his forehead —damp with sweat from a morning run but not fevered. You shake your head, lips kinking. "You don't have to pretend to be sick or hurt to visit," you tell him, hand slipping from his forehead to cup his scarred cheek. Eivor leans into the touch with a faint sigh. He wanted to tell you how he felt on the docks before sailing for Anglia, but the words were stuck in his throat, much like they are now.

Instead, Eivor will show you. His hand covers yours as he bends down, giving you time to step back, but you don't. The unfamiliar tickle of his golden beard against your cheek causes you to smile, just as his lips brush against yours —hesitant then more certain when you push up on your toes and into him. Eivor's arms wrap around your middle and when the kiss breaks, he lifts you up carrying you back to bed. "Are you allowed to have this type of relation with a patient?" He asks, laughing while leaning in for another kiss. You push on his shoulder, rolling your eyes, but accept a second kiss without complaint.

"Eivor Wolfsmal," you start, and he hangs off of every word as you brush your fingers over the tattoo of a raven on the side of his head "I love you." He may be stubborn and a terrible patient at times, but you had loved him for as long as you could remember. Eivor's tender gaze and the calm silence is broken by Sýnin in the rafters, squawking and bouncing from foot-to-foot. The raven's antics make you laugh, but Eivor knows why his cantankerous bird is acting like this. He rolls onto his side, rough hand tracing along your cheek and jaw.

Eivor draws you flush against him, lips seeking yours for the third of many times to come. The action silences Sýnin, but the raven still looks down —dark eyes trained on the two of you. He sighs when you part and presses his forehead against yours, holding you close. " _Ek ann þér_ ," he breathes with a soft sigh —his only regret is he had not told you sooner, but unless Ingibjǫrg comes knocking, there's plenty of hours left in the day to make up for lost time. 


	16. Going down on Eivor under the table during a meeting.

HIS LEGS ARE splayed open under the table, belt still loose around his waist with half the ties of his dark, woolen pants unlaced. Eivor shifts in his chair and you can see the outline of his hard cock —still hard from how you had ridden his thigh before the first of the visiting Jarls entered the hall. Unwilling to risk being caught, Eivor urged you beneath the table to wait out the meeting as it was only a preliminary gathering. You bite down on your lip, contemplating just how foolish the wicked idea dancing around in your mind is.

The muscles in his legs tense when you slide your hands up his thighs —causing him to fumble mid-sentence. You move closer to the chair and Eivor splays his legs wider, an invitation as he relaxes again. Lips kinking, you start working on the ties of his breeches, loosening them just enough to pull his cock free. From above, you hear his sharp breath when you wrap one hand around him, the other resting on his knee for balance. Eivor’s cock is thick, ribbed with veins, and dripping with want. You rub your thumb over his swollen head, gathering the slickness there and spreading it over his cock when you stroke him —once, twice, thrice.

His hips buck upward when you drag the flat of your tongue up the underside of his cock, tracing one of the veins running from base to shaft. Settling on your knees, you continue stroking him —feeling him twitch and tremble under your control. For once, the famed Eivor Wolfsmal is completely at your mercy.

You wait until there is a moment of silence among the Jarls before covering the head of his cock with your mouth. Eivor lets out a low groan that he quickly disguises as a cough —clearing his throat before speaking and hurrying the meeting along. More can be said over the night’s feast as it grows increasingly hard for Eivor to concentrate on what is being said for how your lips and fingers are wrapped around him, working him to release —skillful as always.

Glancing up, you find one of his hands gripping onto the edge of the table, fingers pressing hard into the wood —fighting the urge to reach under the table. One of the Jarls glances at Eivor oddly, curious for the reasoning behind his silence and nigh pained expression —half-hidden behind his hand and beard. Taking his cock as far as you can, you press your tongue against the underside and let out a nigh silent hum. It reverberates through both of you. Setting a steady rhythm, you bob your head up and down, hands stroking what the warmth of your mouth cannot.

Eivor tenses again as his hips lift from the chair, cock beginning to twitch. Stilling the motions of your head, you continue to stroke him. You’d tuned out most of the conversation, but now hear someone asking Eivor if he is all right. With a strangled response and wave of his hand to continue the meeting, he releases and is unable to stop himself from sliding a hand under the table —stroking your hair and cheek. You gently push Eivor’s hand away and release his cock from your mouth, swallowing the bitter-salt warmth sitting at the back of your throat.

Sitting back, you tuck his cock back into his pants —retying the laces and straightening his tunic and belt. The stillness and droning conversations only serve to remind you aware of the pool warmth in your stomach and the uncomfortable ache between your thighs. Biting down on your lip, you wait in silence as the meeting ends and one-by-one the benches on either side of the long table are cleared.

Once the room emptied of the visiting Jarls, Eivor pushes back his chair slips to his knees to join you —his cheeks are flush, a dark glint in his eyes. “Come here, you,” he demands, crooking his finger in your direction. You crawl to him and Eivor seizes you by the waist, pulling you close against him. It had been torture to not touch or praise you while sucking his cock, but he will repay you in kind. His kiss is almost a punishment in itself, rough and needy —he can taste a hint of his essence on your lips and tongue.

Breaking apart, Eivor’s lips twitch, twisting into a smirk. When he rises, he pulls you up with him and over his shoulder, parading you from the feast hall and out into the muddy road leading to a small home on the outskirts of the village. Overhead Sýnin cries out midflight —the raven racing the two of you back. “You’re in big trouble,” Eivor remarks, pushing open the door and depositing you onto the rag-and-straw mattress.

You laugh, rising to your knees and draw him closer by the laces on his scarlet tunic. “Is that so?” You tease —the words dancing over his lips. Eivor doesn’t answer, but his rough hands seek out the ties of your woolen gown in haste as he seals the space between your lips again. There is no ceremony in how you paw at one another’s clothes, lips only parting to toss aside a piece of clothing until you are both bare as the day you entered the world.

One of his hands slips between your thighs —palm pressing into your clit and fingers delving and exploring the wet warmth. You gasp when two of his fingers slide into you, thrusting and stroking. Eivor groans against your neck when your hand finds his cock, already hard again. Bending forward, he drags his golden beard over your breasts —his other hand coming to cup the soft flesh of one while his lips and tongue tease your nipple into a taut peak.

“Eivor,” you whimper, grinding yourself onto his hand, desperate to find friction and relief. Though as adept as his fingers were at bringing you sweet release, you need to feel him inside of you. He withdraws his fingers from your cunt and brings them to his mouth —sucking and licking them clean with a low moan.

Rising from your knees, you step around Eivor and push back on his shoulders, hard. Hard enough for him to topple back onto the mattress. With lidded eyes, he watches as you crawl atop him, straddling his hips. Eivor reaches between you, sliding his cock between your slick folds before pressing into you. You sink down on him in a smooth motion and Eivor curses as you moan, lips parting —both of you still for a moment. “ _Skatt mitt_ ,” he gasps when you first rock your hips against his.

You move your hips, reaching down to touch yourself as his hands stay on you, whether holding onto your hips, or stroking your thighs, or reaching up to squeeze your breasts —his hands never leave your body as you ride him. Pleasure is building, growing within you, and you chase that feeling as you dig your fingers into his pecs, feeling his strong muscles beneath your hands. Eivor breathes your name over-and-over, his own prayer.

He sounds wrecked as he urges you on, and a feral —unchained— feeling rises in your gut at his words, the sounds he’s making beneath you, how his hands are stroking you. You lean forward on one arm, your body rolling as you ride and grind against him, and he swears before bending his head to take your nipple into his mouth. Eivor thrusts his hips upward, meeting each of your movements as the hand on your hip slips between your thighs —the pad of his thumb making quick circles over your clit. Stars start to dance behind your eyelids as you roll your hips in a slow tantalizing circle. “Let go,” he murmurs, feeling your walls tighten around him and body tremble. And you do —panting and moaning Eivor’s name as you fall over the precipice. Eivor watches your eyes slip shut, lips parted, and head tilted back toward the rafters above.

Falling forward, you rest on his chest for a brief pause until Eivor’s rolls his hips up into yours again. His cock still hard though he can feel his end coming too. Gripping onto your hips, he turns —bracing his weight above you on his forearms. You wrap your legs around his waist without a second thought, grinding your hips against him. Eivor’s beard tickles your cheek before his lips brush against yours. You cup his face in your hands, fingers slipping back into his hair as he begins to thrust into you —chasing his own release.

Eivor presses sloppy kisses along your neck, moaning his pleasure into your skin as he pulls your leg higher over his hip to open you further. “Eivor,” you whimper, squeezing him and his cock with your thighs. He grunts, pushing himself as far inside you as he can, staying there as his cock twitches and warmth fills you.

Easing himself down until your heaving chests are touching. You run your fingers across the part of his hair that is cropped short, following the arch of the raven tattoo there and back down to the twisted scar on his neck. “Don’t ever do that again,” Eivor chides, breathless and smiling. But you just roll your eyes, pushing up on your elbows, you take his lips in a soft, sweet, and slow kiss —almost enough to make him forget that you’re supposed to be in trouble. He pulls back, another type of dark glint in his eyes. “Besides, I haven’t punished you for earlier yet,” he rasps, rolling his hips into yours again —you doubt you and Eivor will be on time for the night’s festivities. 


	17. Finding Eivor after a raid.

FLAMES RISE INTO the night. You adjust the weight of the shield on your arm and tighten your grip on the leather-wrapped hilt of a sword. They had come in the night —setting fire to the fields and tossing torches atop the dry thatch roofs of the settlement. A raid against your peaceful home in East Anglia. 

Eivor grips onto your shoulder, a familiar look in his blue eyes, now clouded by smoke and tears. “Get them out of here,” he murmurs, placing a lingering kiss on your forehead. Nodding, you watch as he steps back, falling in at the head of those gathering to fight. 

Þóra’s small hands clutch at your tunic, frightened. You’d been charged with seeing the children and those who could not fight to safety. “Follow me,” you announce, looking ahead to the tree line and river. If you could make it to the river, everyone could follow it upstream to where the longships had been hidden. “Quickly now,” you urge, nudging one of the young boys forward through the reed fence, “stay together.” 

Sinking into a crouch, you follow as the last of the children pass through the fence —it does not escape you, though, that you are being trailed by two assailants. You stop once everyone reaches the forest. “Keep quiet and move ahead,” you tell them, “I’ll take care of it.”

The group disappears into the forest, hiding behind trees and in the underbrush. You sink behind a fallen tree and watch the two Anglians pass by, swords drawn and searching for those who had escaped. On the wind, you can hear screaming. 

Bounding over the tree, you dart forward after the two men and take one of them by surprise. The heavy thud of his body against the forest floor and the harsh sound of gurgling blood give away your presence to the second man. 

He blocks your first strike and the blow he deals is enough to crack the shield on your arm. Hastily, you discard the broken shield, but not quick enough to evade his second blow. The edge of his sword bites into your side —warmth and pain blossom there. The man steps back, preparing his next move, but his foot hooks on a tree root and you take the opening, hacking down into his shoulder. He drops his own sword and shouts when you wrench the blade from his clavicle, silencing his wails with a clean cut to the throat. 

In the distance, more dark figures approach the tree line. You press your back against one of the trees again and lay in wait —steadying your breathing and listening to the branches snapping and leaves crunching underfoot. 

Between the moon and the flames, a long shadow is cast on the forest floor —then several more. Leaping from behind the cover of the tree, you swing the bloody sword, ignoring the dull throbbing and surge of dampness on your side. The blow is quickly knocked away by an axe —the man wielding it is familiar. “Eivor,” you breathe, dropping the blade. His face is a mess of soot and blood. 

Eivor hangs his axe in his belt and lays one hand on your shoulder, the other cupping your cheek. Relief floods his expression as his gaze darts across your face and down to your toes. Nothing seems out of place. “Are you okay?” He asks —rough thumb sliding across your cheek. 

“Only scratches,” you assure him, hoping he will not see through the lie. You glance around him to the small group of warriors still trickling into the forest from the burning settlement. Through the canopy of autumn leaves, you spot Sýnin making wide circles and hear his faint cries over the rustling trees. You cannot tarry here any longer. 

IT IS NOT until midday when you stop to rest near where the longships are moored on the river. You let Þóra down from your back, watching as the girl scurries off to her mother —a shieldmaiden who’d taken a grievous wound to the thigh. Eivor spots the patch of bloodstained wool on your side when you kneel at the river’s edge, splashing water on your face. 

He crouches next to you, gently shooing Sýnin from his shoulder before pushing your arm aside and reaching for the ties of the belt around your hips. You do not resist when Eivor tugs off your stained tunic to survey the damage. “You said it was only scratches,” he mutters, dipping the burgundy sash he often wears at his waist in the water. 

“You’ve told the same lie, Eivor Wolfsmal,” you chide, reminding him of the times he claimed something serious was only a scratch. If he could call almost losing a finger a scratch, then you could say the same about the cut on your side as it is not deep enough to warrant sutures. A good cleaning and watchful eye will suffice. 

Eivor knows he has been stubborn in the past, often downplaying his own wounds, but seeing _you_ hurt always strikes something deep inside him and stirs an aching sadness in his heart. He lifts the damp sash to wipe away the dirt on your brow and cheeks, then places it aside, taking your face in both of his hands. “I can’t lose you,” Eivor murmurs —almost pleading— swallowing the lump in his throat. He cannot bear the thought of losing you —his closest friend since childhood, who he now calls his wife. 

You cover his hands with your own and lean forward until your lips brush against his. A soft, loving kiss that says _you won’t_ and deepens into _I love you_. Eivor pulls back, hands falling away from your face as he passes you the stained and torn tunic. 

He carries you from the river and eases the both of you down to rest against a tree trunk. You lean against his shoulder, fingers loosely combing through his beard as exhaustion from the previous evening’s attack sets in. Eivor looks between his people and you —one of his arms slips around your waist as he turns his head, pressing his lips to your forehead. “Will you sing to me?” You ask, almost a whisper, curling further into the warmth and safety of his arms. 

“ _My mother told me_ –” he starts having cleared his throat, the timbre of his voice as sweet as any lullaby “– _someday I would buy_ …” You sigh, and despite the desolation having occurred in the night, manage a weak smile as Eivor continues to sing, lulling you to sleep in his arms. 


	18. Eivor is planning on proposing and though you don't know it, the townsfolk do.

EIVOR WOLFSMAL WAITS until he is sure you have left for the day before he knocks on the wooden door of your home. This moment has been a long time coming and one he has put off for nigh a year, but with the courage provided by a cup of ale and the insistent croaking of Sýnin at his ear, Eivor decides now is the time to act. Despite his breadth and stature, he feels small under the scrutinizing stare of your father, Vígmaðr —a reputable warrior in his own right.

This is not an unfamiliar situation, though, hardly three springs ago Eivor sat on the same bench at the small wooden table and petitioned for the lifelong friendship between him and you to be able to grow into something more through courtship. Now, Eivor asks for Vígmaðr’s daughter’s hand in marriage, laying his heart bare.

Guðríðr, your mother, smiles and rests a hand on her husband’s shoulder. Eivor is a good man and as parents, they could not ask for a better man to marry you. He explains his intention to surprise you by asking after the harvest feast by the week’s end —when the agreement is made Eivor takes his leave and lets out a long sigh as the wooden door shuts behind him.

Stepping back onto the main road in the village, he looks up at the overcast sky and smiles, laughing softly to himself as he makes his way into the heart of the seaside village. Sýnin’s low croak is the only warning Eivor has before you fall into stride at his side, carrying a basket of root vegetables and grain. The raven jumps onto your shoulder, ruffling his blue-black feathers and nuzzling against your cheek and temple —more affectionate than normal. Reaching up, you scritch the feathers on Sýnin’s belly. “What’s got you in such a good mood?” You ask, the question directed both to Eivor and the raven perched on your shoulder.

“Thinking about the hunt for the celebration,” Eivor replies, hoping his answer will be enough to stave your curiosity for now. It seems to work as you don’t doubt it —it’d been well over a month since he last went on a true hunt. “You’re busy,” he remarks, eyeing the basket in your arms, not wanting to hinder you. The elder healer of the village had tasked you with running errands to some of the sick, a break from your usual routine of making poultices and tonics. Eivor leans down, placing a quick kiss to your check before carrying on his way.

Sýnin lingers on your shoulder, the raven cocks his head to the side, watching Eivor leave. You eye Sýnin, meeting his dark, beady eyes. “He’s up to something, isn’t he?” Sýnin turns his head this what and that, then hops from foot-to-foot. “ _Mischief_ ,” the raven croaks, “ _mischief_.”

AFTER TWO DAYS since encountering Eivor in the street, you start to notice something odd about the way your parents are acting. Vígmaðr and Guðríðr both assure you it is nothing to worry about, but you _know_ they are hiding something. Taking a small breakfast of smashed cloudberries on brown bread, you try to goad your mother into telling you anything about her and Vígmaðr’s odd behavior. She does not relent, but your suspicions increase tenfold when you venture to the small market. “I heard the good news!” The merchant smiles, accepting the trade of goat tallow for a bundle of mugwort.

“Always knew you and Eivor were a match made by the gods,” someone else says, one of your mother’s close friends and fellow shieldmaidens. You take the few items from the market and what had been foraged from the forest the day prior back to the healer, finding even she is acting strange —giving you the rest of the day for yourself. Drawing up your cloak’s hood, you set out back into the summer rain and towards Eivor’s small house at the edge of the forest.

“Eivor?” You call after knocking, but there is no answer. Pushing open the door, you step inside out of the rain and look around. The hearth is cold, and his bow is gone from its place on the wall. Thrown over the back of his chair is a scarlet tunic with a rip in the sleeve and side —folding it into your basket, you set back toward your home. Eivor’s tunic is not the only thing in need of mending. Your mother wields a sword and shield, but you have always wielded a needle with more efficacy than any sword or axe. Sitting by the fire, you start patching the small pile of clothing at your side, humming the tune to a song Vígmaðr used to sing to you at night.

The next day, Eivor returns with a stag nigh twelve hands high draped over his shoulders. A fine beast for the night’s feast. You accept his soft kiss and return his repaired tunic as he sets off to wash up now that the hunt has ended. Shortly before the festivities begin, Eivor appears at your door —wearing the scarlet tunic beneath a dark leather jerkin— with Sýnin on his shoulder.

For much of the feast, you cannot shake the number of eyes lingering on you and Eivor, as though they are aware of something you are not. Eivor does not leave your side, not even when talk of battle and raids arise among the warriors gathered at one table —their stories drowning out most of the other conversations. He draws you into his side on the bench when barrels of mead and ale are rolled to the center of the hall, his arm tightening around your waist. “I have something to show you,” Eivor breathes, pressing his lips against your temple. You raise your brow in question, and he nods toward the doors, pulling you up to your feet and guiding you by the hand. You hardly notice the mead hall has grown silent with everyone watching as the two of you leave.

He leads you toward the tree line and past a winding trail into the dark depths that you know well from foraging herbs and berries. Sýnin darts through the canopy —you can just make out his dark shadow in the moonlight. Eivor’s foot catches on an upturned root and he stumbles, nearly dragging you to the ground before steadying himself against a tree trunk. He laughs at the folly continues on another path, one that is less traveled. “Where are we going?” You ask, fighting back a laugh. It’s been quite some time since you’ve seen Eivor so giddy about something.

“You’ll see,” he remarks, looking to his side with a bright smile. A little way up on the trail, the forest gives away to a hill overlooking the harbor and village. All the stars in the heavens above are looking down at the two of you standing atop the small bald. The faint beginnings of the autumn and winter lights are visible against the dark backdrop of the sky —dancing ribbons of blue and green.

Between the night sky and the glittering reflection of the moon off the water, you are entranced by the serenity of the night. “Eivor?” You question, softly, noting that he had not taken his gaze off you since coming to a stop. He only smiles in response as Sýnin circles above, letting a two talonfuls of mountain avens rain down.

Eivor stoops down, picking up one of the flowers and tucks it behind your ear —cupping your cheek. His clear blue eyes are sparkling in the moon and starlight. “ _Ek ann þér_ ,” he breathes, his rough thumb ghosting across your lips. You smile, meaning to return the sentiment, though before you can speak Eivor continues, clearing his throat. “And I want to spend the rest of my life with you.” For as long as Eivor could remember, you were always there —his closest friend and the person he loved most in all nine realms. Your brows furrow, but then your eyes widen in understanding as everyone’s odd behavior for the past comes to make sense. “Marry me?” Eivor asks, smiling with love written in eyes and on his expression.

You break into a wide smile and leap up onto your toes, wrapping your arms around Eivor’s neck and find his lips with yours. He wraps his arms around your middle, pulling you flush against him, and leans into the kiss —pouring his heart and soul into it. Eivor pulls away, still smiling as you comb your fingers through his golden beard. “I hope that means yes,” he laughs, taking the flower from behind your ear and threading it into a small braid near the crown of your head.

“Of course, it does,” you assure him, lips kinked into a smile, “I love you, Eivor.” He pulls your close again, dipping his head down to seal the space between your lips again as Sýnin flies overhead, happily croaking. 


	19. A Small Price

“THIS IS NOT what we agreed to, Eivor!” You shout from the other side of the long table after the hall has emptied of emissaries. People from the broken kingdoms of Anglia convened within the bounds of the settlement, each laying forth ultimatums to ensure peace between the Christians and your people lasted through the winter months. The small grievances and concerns you had kept pent up for most of the growing season come bubbling out in your anger.

Eivor Wolfsmal halts his pacing and turns, facing you. “What other choice do we have?” He replies in kind —voice raised and frustrated. The settlement numbers too few to raise an army, and each life is precious for survival and growth of your new home. Even a drop of Norse blood spilled in a petty squabble with the Anglians would be too much. “I do not wish to see our people’s blood spilled for a quarrel that isn’t our own!” Eivor swore to keep neutral in any campaigns involving Ragnar Loðbrók’s sons —a warmongering band of Northmen who sought glory and riches over the simple life you’d left the shores of the Kattegat for.

“So, you let them rob us instead?!” The promise of peace had come with a hefty price in favor of the Anglians —coin, and portions of an already scarce winter stockpile. You step back from the table, running your fingers through disheveled braids, drawing in a deep breath. It had been nothing but one hardship after another since landing on the shores of this new world, and weeks of pent up frustrations set your temper ablaze during the now adjourned meeting.

Eivor braces his weight on the table and wonders what his brother, Sigurd, would have done if presented the same issue. But Sigurd knew the value of life and would not be so eager to spill blood needlessly. “A small price to pay for the safety of our people and home,” he notes, voice turning softer but no less firm.

Crossing your arms, you lift your chin, indignant. “Considering we’ve lost half our winter stores of grain to blight and now this, I hope you’re right,” you tell Eivor, staring into his eyes —no longer a clear blue, but a stormy sea. It is difficult to remember a time you had been this upset with your husband, but today’s meeting had been the last line on a mounting list of aggravations.

Running his hand down his face, Eivor sighs, assuring himself the privations would all be worth it in the end. He rounds the table, leaning against the edge with the faintest of smiles twisting his lips. You had always been more comfortable in battle or working the fields, but politics remained an unfamiliar realm, one that took time to navigate successfully. “By the gods,” he breathes, resting a calloused hand on your cheek —thumb tracing the curve of your bottom lip, “you’re beautiful when you’re angry.”

Flattery and sweet nothings have often allowed Eivor to wiggle out of many quandaries, but when the livelihood of the settlement is at risk, you won’t let him forget it. “Don’t change the subject,” you retort, knowing what he is up to, yet you are not sure what good dwelling on was already decided would do.

He sits on the table, extending one of his hands for you to take. Sighing, you uncross your arms, laying your hand in his. “I know we’ve been distant as of late,” he says, tugging you toward him, thinking of the days when you only saw each other before the sun rose and after it set, “with everything going on.” Eivor pulls you to stand between his spread legs as he leans forward, lips caressing yours, a whisper of a touch, gently teasing as you try to kiss him —his hand on your cheek keeping you still.

A mischievous streak arises in him as he goes back and forth, playing hard to get —anything to see you smile and hear you laughter after the trying days. He nips in for a quick, chaste kiss before pulling away, kissing the tip of your nose, the corner of your mouth, your cheek, your forehead. Every time you try to turn your head towards him, his hands keeps you still. “Eivor,” you gently chide, laughing, “let me kiss you.” With a low chuckle, he relents, leaning in slowly, his eyes fluttering close as his lips meet yours, fully and wholly.

Eivor chases your lips as you pull back, pushing away from the table and back to his feet. His arms surround your waist, holding you close against him. Biting down softly on his bottom lip, Eivor groans into your mouth —one of his hands sliding down to squeeze your bum in recompense. “Careful, _skatt mitt_ ,” he rasps. Each kiss and fervent caress sets his blood ablaze. Nigh every area of your marriage had suffered in the last weeks, and this moment only served as a bitter reminder. 

You breathe his name —a quiet plea— as his lips move across your cheek and down the column of your neck, stopping just above the neckline of your fading wool dress. “I’ve missed you,” Eivor murmurs. Pressing your hand against his cheek, he leans into to the touch, humming softly in contentment when you run your fingers through his blond beard. He does not doubt you have missed him to when you push up into him, lips settling on his again. You wrap your arms around his neck, bringing yourself as close to him as you can, and he tightens his grip on you, kissing you again, and again, reverently, adoringly, as if he had never kissed you before. 

His hand shifts from your cheek to the back of your head, tangling in your hair, and you moan as you feel him take half a step forward, pinning you between himself and the table behind you. Eivor pushes you back, lifting you onto the table and stepping between you splayed legs —never breaking away from the slow kiss. 

A light tug on his bound hair parts the two of you, breathing uneven with lazily smiles and darkened eyes. You hook one leg around his side, sliding to the edge of the table, unable to bear the distance any longer. Your hands slip down to his chest, bunching into his tunic. “I need you,” you whisper —the words dancing across his lips, “ _elskede mitt_.” Eivor surges forward again, kissing you, both hands cupping your face as his tongue gently parts your lips, caressing yours with a soft hum. His hands move from your cheeks, down your neck, and sides where he gathers the hem of your dress —pushing the wool up and over your knees. 

Rough fingertips trail from the top of your linen stockings just below your knee and up the inside of your thigh, stopping shy of your slick warmth. Shifting your hips, Eivor’s fingers brush against your cunt. You whine softly when two of his fingers slide through your wet folds and dip into you —thumb rubbing light circles on your clit. He watches you, the way your lips part with shallow breaths and the rising flush of color on your face and chest as he teases you with his fingers. For all your strength, in moments like this, you are powerless. 

Eivor’s mouth falls open when you lay your hand over the growing bulge in his britches —his moan is strangled against your neck when you palm his hardening cock, stroking what you can reach for the layer of cloth separating you from him. You reach down, fumbling with the ties at his waist —loosening them just enough to free his cock. “ _Fuck_ ,” he chokes when your hand wraps around his girth, stroking him. 

He unwittingly thrusts into your hand, a deep growl rumbling up from deep within his chest as he closes his eyes for a moment —allowing himself to get lost in the slow, steady rhythm of your motion. His hands reach down, hooking beneath your thighs and pulling you closer to him as he lowers his head to kiss your throat. You steady yourself with one hand at the nape of his neck, the other still on him as you bring him against you, the feeling of you so close to him making his breath hitch in his throat. Groaning, he pushes your hand away from his cock and steps back, dragging you off the table and onto unsteady legs. 

“Turn around,” Eivor says, voice a heady rasp. You turn, bending over the table, and he is quick to hike up the hem of your dress again —grinding himself against your bare bottom as he leans over you, kissing the back of your neck. 

Eivor pushes himself inside you with a low, rumbling groan, echoed by a moan of your own. He stays still for half a heartbeat before rolling his hips into yours, deep and slow, wrenching a breathless sigh from you, and he does it again, and again, heat gathering low in your stomach as you pull him closer by the coarse fabric of his tunic. 

You sigh, feeling yourself slowly being overcome by the warm waves of pleasure that wash through you with every motion. You feel his hot breath against your skin as his lips brush across your cheek up to the corner of your mouth to kiss you, sweetly, tenderly, even as his thrusts grow harder, faster, and you turn from him with a gasp as you feel the heat running through your body constrict into a tight ball in the pit of your stomach, waiting to burst. “Eivor,” you cry, his name sounding like a hallowed prayer from your broken voice. 

Soon, he is squeezing his eyes shut, leaning forward to press his forehead into your shoulder as he grips your thighs tight enough to sting —his breath coming in gasps and moans as he sways just on the edge of his pleasure. The ball in your stomach slowly unravels into fiery tendrils that snake into every corner of your body as Eivor reaches down between the two of you, finding your core to trace tight, quick circles at your clit, closing your eyes as you feel yourself start to come apart, before, finally, you’re pushed over the edge, with a moan that sounds half like his name. 

The feeling of you tightening around him is what breaks him, and he comes with a too-loud growl, breathing your name with a heavy sigh —still shuddering with the remnants of his pleasure.

Eivor steps backward, and you whimper at the loss of him and the emptiness that follows. Pushing off the table, you turn to straighten your skirts as he tucks his semi-hard cock back into his pants —sloppily retying the laces. You kiss him again, smiling as you hear a storm approaching from the west with a crack of thunder. Eivor brushes his hand against your cheek, motioning toward the entrance of the mead hall —it is time to return home for the day.

The storm arrives with lashing rain and thunder, but Eivor has not finished with you yet. The past weeks had been trying on both of you, though he does his best to make up for it in an afternoon. You lay in the warmth of Eivor’s arms —wrapped in a pelt of fur as rain strikes the thatch roof of your small home in the settlement. He strokes your cheek with rough fingertips sliding down your neck, following a line down your side, barely brushing against one of your breasts. “I will always do what is best for our people,” he murmurs, pressing his forehead against yours. 

“I know,” you whisper, laying a hand to the center of his chest. He was a renowned warrior, but you choose to look over his prowess in battle for his gentle soul and heart. Eivor Wolfsmal is a good man —among the best you have ever known. The gods had surely looked kindly on you when they let you marry a man like him. 

“That means you, too,” he reminds you. Eivor has made decisions that would be difficult for other men, but he always kept you in mind when making them, even before the responsibility of leading a new settlement. He smiles, lips brushing against your cheek. “You’re my better half, remember?” You laugh, tucking yourself further into his chest and warmth. Eivor calls you his better half, just as you call him yours —a match made by the gods. Letting out a quiet sigh, Eivor pulls you closer to him, knowing the days ahead will be better. 


	20. Promises

EIVOR WOLFSMAL APPRAISES his battle and throwing axes splayed over the low wooden table, heaving a long sigh. Each of the blades are honed and prepared for the journey west. Though before the journey begins, the village is hosting a feast before sending off the traveling party —asking for both blessing and protection from the gods. Placing a bow and quiver next to the axes, Eivor steps back, glancing at the intricate blade strapped to his vambrace. Turning his hand into a fist, the slim blade extends then retracts. With Kjotve’s death, he has no need to bear arms for the celebration, but the thought of his parents stays his hand from loosening the clasps on the wrist blade.

Outside, the fresh snow crunches underfoot though he pays no mind to it until a sweet voice cries his name. “Eivor!” A smile twists his lips upward before he even turns to see you standing in the doorway of his small home. You step forward and reach for Eivor, taking one of his hands as you rise to kiss his scarred cheek in greeting before stepping back —observing what he’d been working on. “Need any help?” You ask, having already aided your brother in gathering his belongings for the voyage.

“I can manage,” Eivor replies, his lips twitching into another smile tinged with longing as he meets your eyes, “but I wouldn’t mind the company.” You slide two smaller axes across the table, making a place to sit as he reaches for a pouch of milled arrowheads and stack of stripped, supple branches already fletched with the dark feathers of a puffin. While watching him secure one of the points on the arrow shaft with beeswax, you can’t help but notice the cloud hanging over him —as though something is haunting him.

Eivor is one of your oldest friends and the one you consider dearest to your heart. “What’s wrong?” He shakes his head, attempting to play off the weights residing on his shoulders. “You’ve got a look about you that could quiet thunder,” you note, handing him another arrowhead. You piece together his downtrodden mood and absence from the feast a few days prior. “You went to Valka,” you surmise —few things could make a man look so troubled as the Seer’s foretelling. 

“Her words did not sit well with me,” he answers, thinking of Valka’s words about his and Sigurd’s relationship and the forthcoming loss of someone dear to him. Valka would not say who, but Eivor could only assume she spoke of you —the woman he’d grown to love and now loved in silence. A sigh escapes his parted lips as he places the finished arrow in the quiver and turns from the table. He gathers two wooden mugs and dipping them into a bucket of Tekla’s latest batch of mead

“They rarely sit well with anyone,” you say, trying to ease his look of worry and despair. You move from the tabletop to one of the short benches and Eivor slides onto the one across from you, staring down into the amber liquid filling his cup. He takes a drink and looks up.

“I dreamt about you,” Eivor remarks, his voice wistful for a time long past. Since Sigurd announced the plans to sail, you frequented his dreams more often —his mind’s way of goading him into voicing the feelings he harbored for too many winters. You raise a brow, setting down the cup of mead, a silent urging for him to continue. “About when we were young and reckless,” he muses.

“Reckless?” You laugh. “Eivor, you still are.” Few would dare say otherwise. He laughs too, knowing it to be the truth.

“Do you remember the night we ran off and almost froze to death before the next sunrise?” Eivor asks —that had been the memory to visit him in a dream last night. You’d both been upset with your brothers over something trivial and made off in the woods together at dusk with only a loaf of brown bread and two throwing axes between the two of you. After the snow filled in the tracks leading back to the settlement, you and Eivor were lost in the woods and spent the frigid night in an alcove of rock until the next morning when found by a search party. 

“I do,” you tell him, briefly recalling the incident in your mind. “My brother was ready to kill you.” Sigurd helped ease Hjorr’s temper that morning —you couldn’t blame him for being upset after losing your parents nigh one winter earlier at the time. The talk of dreams reminds you of your own. A flush of color rises to your cheeks, though Eivor knows it cannot be from the drink or the cold. “I dreamt about you last night.” The confession surprises him, but he leans in closer, curious to learn how he had visited you in your sleep. “About when you taught me archery,” you tell him.

“You were a quick learner,” Eivor notes. He’d taught a fair share of people in Fornburg how to use a bow, but of all his students —you’d been the one to take to it like carrion to dead flesh. With his lessons and no small amount of practice, you became one of the most skilled hunters in the settlement.

“I had a good teacher,” you say in turn, taking a long drink of mead.

Eivor glances down at the scratched table, flexing the fingers of his draw hand. “We’ve quite the memories together, don’t we?” You and Eivor had been in each other’s lives since King Styrbjorn took him in as his son nigh eighteen winters ago.

You reach across the table, grasping both his hands in yours, thumb running across his knuckles. “There’s still time to make new ones together, too.” Eivor turns one of his hands, threading his fingers through yours. The timing is perfect and he wants to tell you — _I love you_ — but the resounding call of several horns announcing the feast cause you to leap from the bench. Hand still entwined with Eivor’s you tug him from the bench and out of the door toward the longhouse.

Entering the feasting hall, Sigurd is already there with his father —he catches sight of your and Eivor and falls back from the conversation with Gunnar. The king’s son opens his arms, embracing you and placing a short kiss upon your cheek in greeting. “Still fair as ever, isn’t she brother?” Sigurd asks, smiling at the flush of color on your cheeks, though Eivor knows what his brother is up to. He swallows the lump in his throat and nods, though before he can speak Alvis is challenging him to a flyt and both Randvi and Telka pull you off to talk.

Parting from a conversation with Randvi, you turn, surveying the mead hall and finding Eivor sitting by his lonesome at one of the tables —as he usually does during feasts to avoid attention. You sit next to him, leaning your head on his shoulder and laying your hand over his on the table, fingers curling around his palm. “I’m going to miss you terribly.” Your voice cracks, turning into a hoarse whisper. 

“And I you,” Eivor concedes, tuning his cheek into your temple, “but I’ll always come home.” 

“Brother,” Sigurd calls, “a word outside if you will.” He nods toward the entrance of the hall. Eivor rises from the bench, squeezing your hand as he does before following his brother into the night. Sigurd moves to the edge of the wharf, where several longships are moored in preparation for departure come first light, and clasps Eivor on the shoulder. “How lucky are we, brother, to have people who make saying goodbye so hard?” He queries, staring heavenward. 

“Have you told her yet?” Sigurd asks, lowering his gaze to the still water reflecting the blue-green lights dancing in the sky before looking at Eivor. Only a blind fool could not see how you and Eivor looked at one another, the way you each lit up the moment you could be together, but even after years, it at all remained unspoken —stubbornness and fear stayed his tongue for too long. “You’ll regret it if you don’t, brother,” Sigurd tells him before turning to leave Eivor to his thoughts.

* * *

RUBBING YOUR EYES, you sit up in the straw bed and peer into the darkness —making out a familiar figure as he steps onto the creaking wooden floor. “Eivor?” He draws near, stopping to stoke the fire back into flames before kneeling bedside, only the words he’d planned to say have vanished from the tip of his tongue. You frown at the dark shadows cast on his face, noting he looks even more distressed now than he had before the feast. Both Sigurd and Valka’s words were taking their toll. Lifting a hand, you cup his cheek and lift Eivor’s gaze to your own. “A bed is for sleep,” you say, “not worrying.”

He offers a dry laugh. “Using my words against me?” Eivor asks, his faint smile fading. 

“C’mere,” you tell him —still half asleep— tugging on his tunic. Eivor pulls off his boots and clambers over you to the empty side of the bed. He lays on his side, eyes flitting across your face as he feels his throat tighten. Shifting, you move closer to him —drawn to his warmth and absently, he brushes the back of his fingers across your cheek. “ _Do not wrestle with the demons of the dark, else upon your mind they’ll place a mark_ ,” you hum. “ _Do not listen to the shadows of the deep, else they haunt you even when you sleep_.” It was an old poem your mother used to recite to your father when he was troubled. 

Eivor sighs when you lean toward him, lips brushing against his forehead and then his scarred cheek. “Rest your eyes,” you breathe. He rolls onto his back but pulls you with him —arms snaking about your waist. Smiling, you lay your head on his chest, listening to the sound of his steady heartbeat as you slip back into sleep.

* * *

MORNING COMES WITH a cold wind as you make way to the docks before the sun rises over the eastern peaks. Eivor had already gone from your side to prepare for departure. Barrels and skins of freshwater are already being rolled to and loaded onto the small fleet of longships. Stores of food and other rations lay in a heap, waiting to be packed. You fall into those helping prepare the ships, handing-off a cage containing a raven to one of the cloaked men rearranging the loaded supplies. It is not until his hand brushes yours and you catch a glimpse of his golden beard that you recognize the man to be Eivor. “You’re going with us?” he asks, masking his concern as surprise as he sets down one of the birdcages.

“No,” you answer, “only helping pack. You men would forget your head if it weren’t attached to your body.” Having overheard your quip, Randvi laughs in passing as she goes to join her husband at a second longship. He stalls, staring up at you as though you’ve sprouted a second head. “Eivor?”

Eivor steps from the longship and takes your hands, pulling you away from the wharf and into a small fishing hut. He cannot bear the thought of leaving without telling you, and now this is his only chance to do so. “I’m sorry,” he says, wearing an almost pained expression as his brother’s words ring loud and clear in his mind.

“What for?” You ask, not understanding what for or why he is apologizing.

“For not doing this sooner,” he responds, lifting both his rough hands to your cheeks before surging forward. His combed beard tickles your cheek before his lips meet yours —both fierce and desperate. You move your lips against his and grip onto the baldric securing his shield to his back, using it as leverage to pull him closer, chasing away any doubts Eivor may have harbored about how you felt for him. “I love you,” he breathes upon parting, the confession dancing over your lips like tiny kisses. 

You glance down, hiding your grin and the redness on your cheeks —trying to slow your racing heart and calm the butterflies in your belly. “Then I must apologize too,” you start, looking back up at Eivor, “for I’ve loved you longer than I can say.” He bends forward, resting his forehead against yours, and wipes away the gathering dampness below your eyes.

Stepping back, you reach up and untie the leather thong around your neck. It bears a pendant of sunstone carved into the shape of a teardrop. “Take this with you–” you rise on your toes and drape the necklace over his head, knotting the leather at the back of his neck beneath his golden hair “–may it offer memory and protection.”

From the small hut, you both hear Sigurd shouting and know the time has come. Eivor steps into the longship, not yet letting go of your hand. “Come back to me, my love,” you tell him, leaning down and placing your lips on his for a final time. You watch from the end of the wharf —heart both heavy and lightened— as the longships hoist the sails and disappear around the jagged crags of the fjord.

* * *

RANDVI NEARLY FALLS in her haste to your hut at the backside of the longhouse. The horns at the entrance of the fjord had been blown —a sound no one has heard in almost two years. “Longships!” She cries, pointing toward the wharf, leaving as quickly as she came. You drop a threaded needle and tunic in need of repair, following in her footsteps. The sails of the longships are pulled in, and the oars extended, dipping into the cold, dark waters. You hear the cry of a raven and look skyward, finding Sýnin circling overhead —a good omen.

Eivor Wolfsmal hardly gives the longship time to come to a full halt before he leaps from a bench and onto the wharf, darting to where you wait for him. You both collide, laughing and smiling with joyful tears prickling both your eyes. Eivor wraps you in his arms, holding you tight —he presses his cheek into the crown of your head and breathes in the sweet scent of honey and cloudberries. He loosens his arms from around your middle and takes a short step back, tipping your chin up.

Your heart skips when his lips meet yours. Dreams and memories are poor substitutes for the warmth of his mouth and how the callouses on his fingertips graze your cheek and neck. Parting, he wraps you in his arms again —not eager to let go anytime soon. “I always come home,” Eivor breathes with a soft smile, pressing his lips against your temple. You smile, tucking your face into his chest. You never doubted him.


	21. Sharing body heat with Eivor.

“EIVOR!” YOU CRY, dropping a cup of ale onto the floor in shock. He is standing in your doorway, soaked to the bone, and trembling in the cold night —ice stiffens his clothes and gathers in his uncombed beard. You motion him in and push him toward the burning brazier at the center of the room, tossing three more pieces of halved wood to keep the flames from dying down. 

Returning to Eivor, you begin undressing him —frozen clothes will do nothing but make him colder and sick. His wool and fur mantle falls away from his shoulders, followed by his leathers and linens until he’s bear, arms crossed over his chest. You lay your hand on his shoulder, urging him to sit by the brazier before turning to gather up the patchwork of pelts from the straw mattress. 

He glances over his shoulder, finding you’d stripped from your woolen dress and were only left in a loincloth and breast band with a woolen blanket and furs in your arms. A moment later, you join him on the floor —sitting astride his lap, draping the fur and wool around you both and pressing your chest tightly to his, arms wrapped around his middle. Eivor’s skin is like ice, the warm glow of the fire revealing the blue pallor that’d taken him. “What are you doing?” He asks, voice still shaking. 

“Using my warmth,” you breathe, pressing your cheek against his shoulder. The cold could kill a man, but so could warming up too quickly after being nigh frozen. Eivor loosely grips onto your hips —fingertips pressing into your thighs— as you run your hands up and down his back, his heart racing. You hold fast to him, feeling the part of the cold sink into your bones too. He turns his head, rough lips brushing over your forehead. 

Once his heart calms and breathing grows even, he leans against a stack of firewood and pulls you with him —unwilling to give up your warmth. Resting a hand over his cheek, you trace the scar there and meet his clear blue gaze. “What happened?” You ask, hand slipping down to his shoulder and chest.

Eivor shakes his head, ridiculing his folly —he should have known better than tread that path. “The ice wasn’t as thick as I thought on one of the pools near Hildisvíni Crag,” he answers. One misstep and the next thing he knew was a cold that felt like a thousand blades stabbing him at once. Had he been further from Fornburg, he would likely have frozen in the night, but he’d made it home and into the warmth of your loving arms.

Knowing he must be starving after having left before sunrise, you rise from his lap and lift the kettle from over the fire —pouring out the remaining hot water into a cup holding a sash of dried bilberry and birch. Leaving the brew steeping, you gather a small meal and return to his side. “Here,” you press the stone cup into his hands and sit back at his side with a plate of brown bread, butter, and smashed elderberries.

“Better?” You ask, smiling. A soft flush of pink returns to his cheeks and his touch is no longer like ice. Eivor nods and leans to the side, pressing his lips against your temple. He’s lost track of the times he’s returned home at ungodly hours in unpredictable conditions only to be greeted by your smile and kiss —it’s only recently he has been able to start referring to you as his wife. 

Sighing, you reach for his hand and thread your fingers through his, tucking your entwined hands beneath your chin. The gods both blessed and cursed you by entangling your fate with Eivor Wolfsmal’s. He is the best man you know, and you’re grateful to call him yours, but you worry for him a great deal —never knowing if he’ll come back bloody and missing limbs or nigh frozen in the night. “You scared me,” you admit, voice barely a whisper.

“That wasn’t my intent,” Eivor notes, pulling you back against his chest, his arm settling around your waist. He doesn’t like it when you worry for him, but he knows nothing he says can change that. You’d been his best friend years before he ever called you his wife, and you always worried for him until he was back safe at home.

“I know,” you tell him, gaze darting from the patch of dark blond hair on his chest up to his eyes. “Just don’t go making a habit out of it,” you add, laughing softly. 

His lips kink into a smile, and he bends forward. Eivor’s beard scratches and tickles your cheek and chin just for a moment before his lips touch yours —still smiling. You slip your hand from his and loosely comb through the hair at the back of his neck as you push closer to him. Eivor’s kisses are sweeter as summer mead, soft as the first snowfall, and you can never get enough of them. He pulls away, brushing the backs of his fingers over your cheek. “I don’t plan to,” he assures you. Plans seldom seem to go in his favor, though.

Rid of the deathly chill that’d taken him, Eivor gathers you up in his arms and moves to the straw-and-rag stuffed mattress separated from the main room by a screen of wattle and settles in for a late-night. Under the woolen blankets and patchwork of fur pelts, you curl into his chest and tangle your legs with his. He brushes away the hair covering your cheek and places a short kiss there. “Sleep well, love,” he breathes with a soft sigh, feeling you press a light kiss to his collarbone in return. Eivor settles his arms around you and feels a blossoming warmth in his chest —he smiles into the crown of your hair, knowing you to be the source of that warmth.


	22. Oath Bound

THE AIR OF the longhouse is stifling, but the feast carries on with singing, dancing, and drunken sparring —many will remain until the morning light. The winter solstice falls upon Fornburg, and so comes the end of Jól. Cheeks flushed, you step into the crisp night air from the feast hall unseen, pulling the woolen cloak tight around your shoulders fore setting off to a small house near the edge of the settlement. All Fornburg had been in attendance for the celebrations save for one —the person whose company you missed the most. You rap on the doorframe and hear the shuffle of feet and the low, gurgling croak of a raven. “Eivor,” you greet, smiling when he opens the splintering door. 

He pulls you inside from the cold and takes the cloak from your shoulders, laying it next to his across a stool by the door. “You didn’t have to leave on my account,” he notes, turning to tend the fire. For the past several years, you often found yourself in Eivor’s presence to finish out the celebrations. You could drink, sing, and dance, but the last night of Jól never felt complete without seeing your best friend. 

Sýnin hops across the floor to you, squawking madly and flapping his wings despite the small stint on his leg. Eivor was a mess when he brought Sýnin to you two nights ago with a broken leg. Your steady and gentle hands would have the raven back to his mischief in no time. “No,” you say in turn, picking the raven up and settling him in your lap as you take a seat by the hearth, “but I wanted to.” He sits next to you, lips tugging into a smile as he watches you scritch the feathers on Sýnin’s head. “You shouldn’t have to be alone.” You lean over toward him, shoulders brushing. 

You know this time of year is difficult for him, bringing unpleasant memories and feelings of anger and sadness. Ever since King Styrbjorn named Eivor Wolfsmal a son nigh ten winters ago, he has taken no part in Jól or the accompanying winter festivities. The celebrations forever tainted by the night his parents were slaughtered by Kjotve the Cruel. For that reason, he prefers solitude when the time draws near. Though he’s always been happy to accept your company —even more so now that you’ve both grown older.

* * *

EIVOR SPOTS YOU leave from the trading post with a pouch of silver beads and threaded stones after exiting the longhouse. Sigurd asked if you would craft a necklace for his wife, similar to the one you wear that she has remarked on before. It is a gift he wishes to present to Randvi by the end of Jól. He falls in stride with you, noticing a new gleam in your eyes that makes his heart start to beat quicker and throat constrict. “I swore my oath today,” you tell him with a smile, taking hold of his offered arm, “Sigurd as my witness.” 

Sigurd did not ask what you’d sworn to do, though based on the warmth that rose to your cheeks, he is certain it has something to do with his brother. Even before his parents were murdered, you and Eivor had been close, but now after more than two decades, you were nigh inseparable —only parted when the tides of war called upon him. All of Fornburg seemed to know your feelings for one another stretched beyond those of simple friendship, but you were both too stubborn to see it, let alone do something about it. 

The two of you stop at the doorway of your home and father’s workshop. “I swore an oath too,” Eivor notes, surprising you. This will have been the first Jól since he was a young boy, where he swore an oath. You raise a brow in question, but he will not speak of the vow made between himself and the gods. He takes a step closer to you and bends down, placing a quick kiss on your forehead before retreating toward the longhouse to rejoin his brother. 

“Eivor!” You call before he is out of earshot and he turns, “join us for supper tonight.” Eivor smiles and nods, following the trampled path back into the heart of Fornburg.

* * *

A FROWN CROSSES your lips. For the entire morning, you looked forward to an afternoon with just you and Eivor —Sýnin too— but a sudden influx of orders for the settlement’s potter keeps you from meeting him at the docks. Your father needs the extra set of hands if he means to finish the job by the new moon. “I’m sorry,” you tell Eivor, wiping the wet clay from your hands onto a threadbare apron, disheartened and unable to meet his soft blue gaze.

“It’s no matter,” Eivor says, tipping your chin up. Helping your father takes priority, and he will not fault you for that. “The fish aren’t going anywhere.” There would always be another day, and there would always be fish in the sea. The same can’t be said for the old potter. 

“I suppose they aren’t,” you laugh, though you can see the disappointment in his eyes and his crestfallen expression even if he acts unbothered. 

He glances over your shoulder to the line of jars and pots waiting to be fired —he may not be a potter, but he has two hands and can follow instructions well enough. Besides, he doesn’t mind helping if it means spending time with you. “May I join you and your father?” Eivor asks. 

“Of course,” you smile, waving him in, “you’re always welcome at our hearth.” Your gentle smile fills his heart with warmth as he enters the workshop. Equally content working as fishing if it means being next to you.

* * *

HE TAKES YOUR arm, leading you past the longhouse and toward a path leading into the mountains, but you and Eivor both come to a halt when a familiar voice calls out his name. “Brother!” Sigurd calls again, his tone signaling something urgent. 

A gentle laugh escapes your lips as they curve upward into a smile despite the disappointment that makes your heart drop. “You know how Sigurd is when he’s kept waiting,” you note. In comparison to his brother, Eivor has boundless patience —even for those who would try his nerves. He sighs, glancing over his shoulder, though when he turns back, your warm lips are against his scarred cheek. “I’ll see you later,” you tell him, nudging him in the direction where Sigurd waits. Neither of you sees each other’s shoulders fall —another moment to fulfill the oaths you’d taken is snatched away.

* * *

TAKING LEAVE OF the feast hall, you make your way to the wharf and take in the crisp air and clear night. You’re allowed only a few minutes of solitude before Eivor approaches, eyes flitting between the blue-green lights dancing in the sky and you. Seeing you’d left your cloak, he unties his and drapes it around your shoulders. You glance up at him, smiling, and Eivor notes there is something different about your gaze —or perhaps it is that he finally understands what it means. “Have you made good on your oath?” He asks, curious. 

“Not yet,” you answer, sadness twinging your voice. There’d been several times since you’d taken the oath where you should have been able to tell him. Though, between your father, Sigurd, and Gunnar, those moments turned fleeting. And another moment never seemed to arise where the two of you were alone —away from the prying eyes of others. You’ve only until tomorrow morning to fulfill the promise you’d made or risk shaming yourself and the gods. 

“Nor have I,” he says, quietly. “The timing has not been right.” You nod, understanding Eivor’s plight as similar to your own, and it piques your curiosity as to what he has sworn to do. His hand brushes against yours even as his eyes turn skyward. It is a lovely night. “Is your oath something I can help with?”

The question catches you off guard, and you begin to wonder if he knows the oath you’ve taken somehow. Gathering your nerve and realizing there will not be a moment as opportune as this, you turn toward him. “Yes, actually,” you announce with the beginnings of a smile. He spreads his arms, waiting to hear what you will command him to do. “Close your eyes,” you tell him, moving to stand in front of him. Eivor lifts his brow in question but does as you ask, his clear blue eyes slipping shut. 

He fights the urge to look when your fingers graze his scarred cheek —the light touch muted in comparison to what he feels on his left cheek— slipping down to comb through his beard. A soft caress of warm air is Eivor’s only forewarning before you place your lips on his. Eivor does not respond at first, his body rigid with the shock, but then he stumbles, knees going weak, and his hands finding purchase on your lower back and neck —drawing you closer. You can taste the mead on his lips and tongue. After the years of longing, it feels right —like the gods made you for one another and nobody else— and you are not eager to part.

But Eivor breaks the kiss, resting his forehead against yours, one hand brushing through your hair as you trace the deep scar on his cheek. “A kiss?” He queries with a smile, wondering if it is what you had sworn to the gods. 

You nod, resting your hand against his chest. Beneath your palm, his heart is racing. Reaching for one of his hands, you flatten his palm over your heart —it is beating just as quickly. “And my heart,” you add, having lost track of when exactly you’d unknowingly given Eivor Wolfsmal your heart. 

He chases away the space between you, kissing you again without hesitation. If he carried your heart, then you had carried his since before you helped mend Sýnin’s broken leg over a decade ago. Eivor cups your face with his rough hands, pouring years of unspoken confessions into the soft, commanding kiss. “ _Ek ann þér_ ,” he breathes, but the lull is interrupted by the loud croak of a raven. 

Sýnin swoops down from the night sky, settling on your shoulder as though he knows the significance of what just occurred. You laugh, lifting your hand to stroke the oil-slick feathers on his breast and head as Eivor groans. “Don’t fret your feathers, Sýnin,” you chide, fearing it to be jealously driving the raven’s cantankerous attitude, “I love you, too.” His loud call from before is replaced by a soft, gurgling croak —almost a purr. Eivor shakes his head. You slip one of your hands into Eivor’s. “What of your oath?”. 

“Fulfilled,” he says, lips curved into a smile, “with the gods as witness.” Eivor leans toward you again, and Sýnin takes flight before his lips brush against yours once more. His arms wrap around your middle, drawing you closer. 

He laughs —a deep, rich sound from his chest— at your gasp when he sweeps you into his arms and begins making his way to his small home at the edge of Fornburg. You sit by the hearth, shoulders brushing with Sýnin perched in the rafters above. This Jól ends as others have before it, with you and Eivor together —only now you exchange soft kisses and quiet _I love you_ s by the fire with both your hearts feeling lighter and fuller than ever before. 


	23. Getting a matching tattoo with Eivor

SVEND GREETS YOU with a smile and motions you into his workshop and home, for he knows the reason you have come to visit him this early in the day after Tove told him of your plans the prior evening. Eivor Wolfsmal and his brother, Sigurd, were due back any day now, having left two moons ago to venture further into Mercia seeking an alliance with the Songs of Ragnar. 

It is not only Eivor’s return that has you sitting in Svend’s workshop but the fast-approaching day marking your third year of marriage. You wished to surprise him with a tattoo of raven matching his own —a tribute to your clan, Sýnin, and your husband. 

With a piece of wood coal, Svend outlines the shape of a raven on the inside of your wrist. The same design Eivor proudly displays on the right side of his skull and that he’d labored over for days. Rising from the table, he gathers several pins and brings a freshly mixed thick blue-black paste of wood ash and woad. 

The process is slow and one of practiced repetition —dipping the head of a slim pin into the dye, tapping it into the skin within the bounds of his charcoal outline, and wiping away any blood welling up. It takes the day for him to complete the relatively small, simple design. “Keep it wrapped while it heals,” the tattooist tells you, tying off a strip of linen around your wrist. It is sore to the touch and will take several days to mend. 

“Thank you, Svend,” you smile, flexing your stiff hand and arm before reaching to your belt and presenting him with a pouch of silver coin. A fair price for fair work. 

He shakes his head, pushing the coin purse across the table. “No,” Svend says, adamant, “this place and your company are more than enough payment.” The tattooist looks around his workshop and out the door to the ever-growing settlement of Ravensthorpe. Sigurd may wear the title of Jarl, but it is Eivor who had rebuilt the abandoned borough into a prospering seat in the heart of Mercia. Between his new home and workshop and a day of pleasant conversation with you, he needs no compensation. “You and Eivor have already done too much for an old man like me,” he notes.

* * *

LITTLE ARTH FINDS you at the hearth in the longhouse, sewing tunics and repairing ripped britches for several of the children often running amuck through the fields and woods, finding more trouble than treasures. His bright smile is enough for you to know why he has come in haste —the sails of Eivor’s longship spotted on the River Nene in the twilight. You follow in the boy’s steps, darting to the wharf eager to see your husband after so many weeks apart. 

His voice rings out over the river and longship crew like a sweet song —they are to unload the plundered riches for the storehouse. Eivor jumps from the dragon-tail of the ship, eyes skimming over the visiting traders and the people of Ravensthorpe. You call his name above a small gathering, and he is quick to discard the shield and bow on his back, greeting you with a warm embrace and soft kiss upon the cheek. “A fair sight for thine sore eyes,” he remarks, worsening a smudge of soot on your cheek. 

You smile, wrapping your arms around him again, and take a quick moment to breathe in his scent —leather, sweet berries, and hornbeam resin. “It’s good to have you back,” you tell him. This time he leans forward, rough lips meeting yours. A short, sweet kiss promising more to follow to make up for days and nights you’ve been parted from each other. Parting, you glance around him to the longship. Sigurd departed with him but does not return. “Where is your brother?”

Eivor recovers his bow and shield, draping his arm over your shoulders as you both climb the hill leading to the longhouse. “Gone to begin negotiations with the East Anglia,” he answers. Sigurd is making it a habit to keep the company of kings in hopes that one day he may wear a crown of his own. “No matter,” Eivor remarks —Sigurd is better suited for things of a diplomatic nature. “I should tell Randvi the good news.” New allies for the Raven clan had been found in the Sons of Ragnar. 

He pauses in the center of the longhouse, turning to the adjacent room where Randvi is discussing discoveries with her scouts. “Join me in our chambers after you’ve delivered the tidings,” you say, quietly, kissing his scarred cheek before returning to the hearth to gather up your sewing projects. The heavy wooden door shuts behind him, and he’s quick to start shedding his bracers and outer layers. 

Eivor crawls onto the straw bed wearing a faded blue tunic and patched breeches, laying his head on your thigh, and you run your fingers across his brow —smoothing out the wrinkles and furrows. A lengthy sigh passes his lips. “I am sorry to have missed our anniversary,” he admits. Of all the days away from you, that had been the day to seem endless. Sigurd and Ivarr alike tried to cheer him up with drink, but he would not be content until he returned to Ravensthorpe and you.

“All that matters is you’re back,” you say with a smile, “safe and in my arms.” Eivor returns your smile in kind, sitting up. He moves behind you on the mattress, wrapping his arms around your middle, and props his chin up on your shoulder. You hold onto his hands, softly laughing as he rocks you from side-to-side to the tune of a hummed lullaby. It is good to have your husband back, if only for a short while. 

“What happened?” He asks, catching your bandaged wrist. His first thought is you’ve managed to burn yourself, but you disprove that suspicion when you pull the knot in the linen free, discarding the dressing and revealing the tattoo —just under a week old and close to being healed save for a few small scabs. Shifting, you note the surprise in his clear blue eyes and the soft smile kinking his lips. 

“A raven,” Eivor breathes, his calloused thumb tracing the outline of the tattoo that is a mirror image of the one on his scalp. Hearing talk of ravens, Sýnin drops down from the rafters, staring at the blue-black tattoo of his likeness on your wrist. He turns his head this way and that —looking between your tattoo and the one Eivor has. With a satisfied croak, Sýnin returns to his perch in the rafters above.

“What do you think?” You ask, glancing at the raven on your wrist. Eivor lifts your wrist, placing a short kiss to the tattoo in reverence before brushing aside your hair and kissing a small patch of skin on your neck just below your ear —making you shiver. 

“I love it,” he hums, letting his golden beard tickle your check. He sees it as a tribute to your people and Sýnin —an expression and extension of your love. “And I love you,” he adds. Eivor will never let an opportunity for him to say he loves you go to waste. He is away too often and involved in too many battles to ever let silence rest easily on his heart. Tilting your chin up, Eivor kisses you. This kiss lasts longer than the others and is no less sweet. You cup his scarred cheek, chasing his lips when he moves to part, and he chuckles as he rids the space between you —pulling further into the bed. 

_Yes_ , you think white settling for the night with the added comfort of Eivor’s warmth and arms draped across your middle, _it is good to have my husband back._


	24. A first kiss with Eivor.

A WOODEN PLANK creaks underfoot as you tiptoe toward the entrance of your single room home, trying not to wake your father and mother at the late hour. Your efforts to be stealthy fail as your father stirs awake at the opposite end of the hut, eyes studying the darkness and groggily asking why you’re up in the dead of night. Replying that you only wished for a drink of water eases his mind, and after a few long moments, you hear his soft snores again. Letting out a shaky breath, you move quickly, slipping into the night. 

Eivor Wolfsmal is waiting in the moonlight under a tree just outside your home, Sýnin perched on his shoulder. He smiles when you reach him, extending his hand for you to take before stealing you away to a quiet cove where a new litter of seal pups resides. For some time now this small cove had been your and Eivor's spot —a place of quiet solitude away from the demands and expectations of life. 

He is a man now —the son of a king. Sigurd's more frequent and prolonged absences leave Eivor to shoulder his brother's duties. You are no longer a girl either, but a woman grown —nearly finished with a five-year apprenticeship under the blacksmith, Gunnar. While you are in no position to open your own forge, you will soon be Gunnar's equal. It certainly helps your position that Eivor trusts you with his axe and blades. 

You both sit on the rocky shoreline, looking out over the dark water to the crag of rock jutting from the surface and writhing with harbor seals. Sýnin croaks at your ear, jealous of the seal pup whose belly you're rubbing. You eye the raven and Eivor laughs —shaking his head. 

“This makes the third time he’s nearly caught me,” you note with a long sigh. It was easy for Eivor to sneak around without a care as to being caught, but between your mother and father and their growing suspicions, it was becoming more difficult to leave your home at odd hours of the night. When you were younger, they laughed at your and Eivor's antics, but now people were starting to talk. “We cannot keep this up, Eivor." 

He frowns, having received an earful from Styrbjorn less than a fortnight ago about the whispers surrounding his adopted son. _You are past the age of unwitting playfulness, Eivor_. All Fornburg knew the two of you were inseparable; parting when duty demanded it. _Best consider how you_ really _feel, boy, and act on it_. 

Only a fool could not see how things had changed since you both came of age. Your gazes linger more now, often wandering when the other looked away. Hugs last longer, too, and even the simplest of touches —hands or arms brushing— set your hearts to beating like a war drum. 

"I'll find a way," he tells you, planning to confront your father before the harvest feast about courtship. Though before he makes a fool of himself, Eivor needs to know if you feel the same. He watches you stroke Sýnin’s feathers as the raven had taken up residence on your thigh, demanding scritches if he couldn't have a treat. Eivor smiles —you are one of the few people Sýnin is fond of. 

You catch his gaze from the corner of your eye, wondering how long he had been looking at you like that —with his lips kinked into a smile beneath a growing golden beard and a glint of something bordering on longing in his clear blue eyes. "Eivor?" You question, only half-drawing him from the trance. He lifts his hand, fingertips gliding across your cheek and back into your hair. 

Eivor leans toward you, and instinctively, you do the same. You expect a kiss upon the cheek or temple, but it never comes. Instead, his lips brush over yours —almost missing his mark as his nose bumps against yours, pushing him a little too far left. He feels your lips twist into a smile as you tilt your head to meet his kiss firmly and happily. You move a hand to his shoulder for balance, the other resting over the scar on his neck. 

Though clumsy at first, you both fall into rhythm, like the rise and fall of the sea. You think kissing your best friend should feel strange —wrong even, but it doesn't. It feels _right_. A harsh croak from Sýnin separates you. Eivor glances down at the raven, in part to hide the color rising his face. His eyes flit up to yours, though he cannot help but notice the warmth on your cheeks too. "I've wanted to do that for a while now," he admits, laughing. Smiling, you lean toward him again, pressing your lips against the corner of his, feeling the tickle of his short beard against your cheek.

* * *

WATER LAPS AT your feet as you look to the small isle where seals often frequent, though abandoned now that warmer months have returned. It's quiet and peaceful —a good place to come and think of everything that has happened and will happen in the coming days. Nigh five years have passed since the night you and Eivor shared a first kiss under the moonlight. Now you ponder your upcoming wedding. In less than a month's timing, you would marry Eivor —your closest and dearest friend. 

Gravel crunches underfoot, and you smile. Only one other knew about this spot. "Aren't you supposed to be hunting with Alvis?" You challenge, glancing back as Eivor joins you on the shore. 

"Yes," Eivor answers sitting next to you —Sýnin hops from his shoulder to yours, "but he and Holger are having a _dispute_." You roll your eyes at his response, laughing. The two brothers always seemed to be at odds about something, no matter how trivial. The hunt would have to wait for another day. 

"Besides,” he starts, wrapping an arm around your waist and pulling you onto his lap. “I was hoping we might spend some time together–” he eyes Sýnin, silently telling the raven to take leave to hunt or preen his feathers “–alone.” Sýnin croaks in response, ruffling his feathers before taking to the grey sky. 

You shift, running a finger down the scar on his cheek and across his lips. Eivor catches your hand, placing a soft kiss on the center of your palm. Freeing your wrist, he leans forward, wasting no time in settling his lips against yours and stealing your breath away. "You've gotten better at kissing," you laugh, recalling the first time Eivor kissed you in the moonlight in this same spot. 

He hums his agreement, a smirk kinking his lips as a dark glint appears in his bright blue eyes. "I've learned a few tricks," Eivor remarks, "with my lips and tongue.” You raise a brow in question, but his smile and kiss assure you that neither of you will be arriving at the evening's feast on time.


	25. An arranged marriage with a Saxon princess turns out better than expected.

EIVOR AND HIS brother, Sigurd, stand before Ceolmund —a powerful Saxon king crowned with the aid of the Norsemen standing before him. Now King Ceolmund of Lothian wishes to secure a lasting alliance with the Raven Clan, one that would not fade at the hands of time. It is marriage the new king speaks of. A marriage between his only beloved daughter and one of the men who laid a crown and kingdom at his feet.

Ceolmund looks to Sigurd to accept, but he shakes his head and dips his shoulders forward in a display of genuflection. “I cannot accept this gracious offer, lord, for I am bound to another already–” Sigurd’s gaze falls upon Eivor “–but my brother…”

He is cut off by Eivor, pulling harshly on the baldric securing his greatsword. “What are you doing?” Eivor hisses under his breath. He had come to secure an alliance and crown another Saxon king who’d look upon the Danes and Norse in favor —not to marry a stranger with no forewarning and on his brother’s whim.

Sigurd turns, his gaze sharp. A curt reminder that he is Jarl of the Raven Clan, not Eivor. “Calm yourself, brother,” he snaps. There’s a pause, heavy with silence, and Sigurd’s smile turns into that of a serpent’s. “It’s past time you wed anyway. Don’t you think?” Eivor glares at his brother, but Sigurd ignores the harsh look and turns back to King Ceolmund. “My brother,” he starts, motioning to the warrior standing to his right, “the honorable Eivor Wolf-kissed, will accept.”

Ceolmund rises from his throne, stepping onto the short dais —arms outstretched toward Eivor. “I should hear it from thine own lips,” he says, meeting Eivor’s unease gaze. What he is asking is no small task, but with Sigurd’s hasty acceptance, he has hope Eivor will follow his Jarl’s wishes. In truth, a piece of him is relieved it is Eivor Wolfsmal and not Sigurd. “Will you forge the bonds of an alliance and lasting friendship between our peoples through marriage to my daughter?”

“You honor me, lord,” Eivor tells Ceolmund with a knot forming in his throat, making it hard to speak. He bows his head. “I accept your offer of an alliance through marriage.”

* * *

 _MARRIAGE_ , THE WORD sits bitterly on your tongue after your father, _King_ Ceolmund of Lothian, comes to visit your chambers in a decaying Roman fortress. “Mother would be ashamed!” You spit, fraught with the sudden news of your impending marriage to a heathen —a matter in which you had no say. “Using me as a bartering piece. A pawn in your games.” You’d trusted your father to 

“He’s a good man,” your father refutes. Throughout three moons, he felt he had come to know the man who would marry his daughter —an honest man who wished to do right by his people and protect them even if it meant shedding blood and sweat for quarrels that were not his own. Ceolmund could not ask for a better man —Christian or pagan— to marry his daughter. 

You would rather be sworn to the likes of King Aelfred than one of the godless invaders crawling over England. “He’s a heathen!” You cry. “A barbarian!” 

Ceolmund pinches the bridge of his nose, drawing in a long breath. There will be a feast tonight to celebrate his coronation, where he will make the announcement and begin wedding preparations. He will not ask you to feign happiness, only civility. “Please,” Ceolmund says, holding your shaking hands, “all I ask is that you do not insult our new position or friends tonight.” But even that seemed to be a hefty request now. 

“Princess,” Eivor greets, his clear blue gaze kind and voice softened by a cup of ale. “If I may have a word?” Across the table, your father nods, imploring you to take leave of the feast to speak with the man you’d be marrying in less than a fortnight. You lay your hand in Eivor’s as you rise and follow him from the keep, into the cool air of a spring night to a bench facing a northern vista with snowcapped hills far off in the distance. A frown purses his lips as he sees despair mingled with fear overtake your expression —like a newly caged bird who lost her song. “I know you are not happy with this arrangement,” he starts, gaining your attention. From his tone, you can tell he is not particularly happy either, “but know I will not harm you, and I will protect you until the Valkyries summon me home.” 

You trace the sharp features of his face, lingering on the deep scar across his cheek. In your contemplative silence, Eivor reaches for one of your hands —gently holding it within his own, a soft assurance that his words had been sincere. His fingers are rough from long years of work and fighting, and when he folds them around your hand, it makes you feel small —feeble, even. “You are not what I expected, Eivor,” you note, adverting your gaze. 

“What did you expect?” Eivor asks, curious to know if he and his people had been the monsters in the bedtime tales your mother used to tell. It seemed a common thing across England for Norse and Danes to be made out as devils, or worse. 

“I would spare you from my initial thoughts,” you note, quietly with the color of shame on your cheeks, “for now they feel foolish.” Indeed, you were told stories of the Northmen as a child —that they were bloodthirsty, godless barbarians who raped and pillaged across the countryside. While every story had a grain of truth, Eivor Wolfsmal only desires what is best for his people —strong alliances, good friends, fertile land, and a place to rest his head. You lay your hand atop his, offering a reserved smile. “Know you have eased my mind and heart this night.”

* * *

EIVOR STEALS YOU away in the afternoon from your loom and threads, leading you to the edge of the mark and a field of wildflowers. A quiet place compared to the bustling streets of Edinburgh —the seat of Lothian— amid celebrations and preparations. Eivor speaks of his childhood with Sigurd, laughing at the foolish things he’d done as a boy. Eivor’s laugh is charming —a low rumble from deep in his chest— and his smile contagious. 

You tell of the time you and a dear friend used boiled wine for an awful prank on your poor mother. Even on her deathbed, you wondered if she ever forgave you for using the wine as fake blood when you stumbled into her solar, holding the hilt of a broken sword against your stomach. 

He spins the stem of a yellow wildflower between his thumb and forefinger as he tells you of his gods. Curiosity had won over you after hearing brief stories from people in the markets about Thor, Loki, and Odin. Eivor leans forward, tucking the flower behind your ear, finishing the tale of Odin’s sacrifice for knowledge after consulting with the embalmed head of Mímir. “He gave his eye?” Eivor nods, and you cringe at the thought of having to pluck your own eye out. 

From above, a raven swoops down, landing on Eivor’s shoulder. His name is Sýnin, and he has been Eivor’s companion for many years. You reach to stroke his oil-slick feathers and are rewarded with a low, gurgling croak before he takes flight again in the light of the setting sun. 

Eivor reclines, arms folded behind his head —looking up at the sky. You lay back too and compelled by a moment of boldness you rest your head on his chest. The fading blue linen tunic he wears in lieu of his leather armor is soft against your cheek. Eivor stiffens at first, then relaxes though a part of him wonders if you can hear his heart beating faster. After a moment of passing silence, he drapes one of his arms across your middle. Above, the sky begins to shift from the soft orange and pinks of sunset to deep indigo. “What do your gods tell you of the stars?”

* * *

EIVOR TAKES THE piece of linen from your hands, shaking his head. “You should not have to tend my wounds, princess,” he notes, wiping away the blood running down his arm from a cut near his shoulder. He returned from a hunt with your father, hiding the bloody wound from a skirmish with bandits. It was not grievous, though it bled heavily. Still, even warriors need to have small injuries tended. Even a soured scratch could send the strongest of men to the grave. 

You’ve grown up in an age of continuous small wars between petty kingdoms and Danes alike and have seen the aftermath of missing limbs and burning flesh. Shying away from blood is not in your nature after aiding physicians in infirmaries after battle —especially when it is your future husband who bleeds. “We are to be wed, Eivor,” you remind him, taking the piece of linen back from him, “and so long as your wounds are not beyond my skill, I shall tend them.” He does not protest again. 

He watches a flush of warmth creep up your neck and into your cheeks as your eyes dart over his bare chest —he is broad of shoulders and chest with thick and strong arms to match. Clearing your throat, you dapple away the last drops of blood and move to mix a paste of yarrow powder and water in a small mortar. Eivor winces at the initial sting of the paste on the cut, but it stems any new blood from welling as quick as a hot iron. 

You sit next to him on the straw bed, reaching for one of his hands. Ceolmund had been right. Eivor is a good man. Yet for all the fondness that has grown in your heart, you remain unsure about marriage and what will happen when you must leave the only home you’ve known. The worries gnaw at your mind and heart. Even if you have started to believe you could love Eivor in time —that there is a chance of contentment in this union. His fingers curl around yours, squeezing gently, as though he can sense your trepidations. “Do you think we can be happy with this arrangement?” You ask, voice trembling and gaze focused on your entwined hands. 

Eivor cups your cheek, and you meet his clear blue gaze. At first, he’d been uncertain, upset even with his brother for forcing his hand, but now, after the long days you’ve spent with one another, Eivor has no doubts. “I do,” he replies —echoing the vows he will soon take. “I’ve enjoyed our time together,” he says with a fleeting smile. Preparations for the wedding had taken longer than anticipated, giving you and Eivor a full month to become acquainted with one another.

“As have I,” you admit. The days you’ve spent with him have been some of the best in recent memory. His thumb absently strokes your cheek, and you smile, leaning into his touch. “Eivor?” He raises his brow in question, letting his hand fall away from your face. A warmth blossoms in your chest, spurring the same type of boldness you felt that evening in the meadow. “May I kiss you?”

“We are to be wed,” he echoes, smiling —lifting both his hands to cup your cheeks. “You need not ask.” Eivor’s close-cropped golden beard tickles and scratches your cheek when you lean forward, closing what distance remains and placing your lips on his. He leads you, parting your lips with a soft sigh. It takes but a moment for you to fall in rhythm and meld against him. You can feel his lips twitch into a smile when one of your hands slides up his chest, the other resting over the mottled patch of skin on his neck.

* * *

THE DOORS SHUT, and you jump, suddenly feeling skittish. The wedding ceremony had come to pass, as had the feast and festivities though now you stand in the center of your bedchambers looking upon your blessed marital bed and knowing what is expected of you. Your husband stands before an open window, barefooted and stripped of the pale embroidered tunic from earlier. He complained during the feast about how scratchy it was. “Eivor?” He turns, stepping toward you —brows furrowed. “It is our wedding night,” you note, voice betraying a veneer of strength. 

Eivor grips onto your shoulders, then lets his hands glide up your neck to cup your cheeks, lifting your gaze to his. He does not wish to see fear and doubt in his wife’s eyes. “I promised I would not hurt you–” he kisses your forehead then returns his kindly gaze to you “–I meant that.” You let out a shaky breath, smiling as he runs his thumbs over your cheeks. “My gods can wait,” he tells you, “so can your God and priests.” Eivor moves one of his hands to your waist, resting his forehead on yours. “We are bound by oath, which should be enough.” Before gods and men alike, you took one another as husband and wife in sickness and health. 

You catch his wrist, sliding his hand up from your neck —peppering his fingertips with gentle kisses. He watches you, lips parted and heart aching. Eivor did not think he gave his heart away so freely, but the knot in his throat as he catches your fleeting smile tells him he had. Loving you was not a difficult feat. 

Closing your eyes, you draw in a slow breath, and the streak of bravado returns. With a final kiss to his palm, you guide his hand to rest on one of your clothed breasts. “Eivor.” You speak his name as though it is a quiet prayer, a soft plead to have you as a husband should have his wife. He pulls on the string at the neck of your shift, loosening it until he can push the thin material off your shoulders. It puddles around your ankles, and though bare, you still hold Eivor’s gaze. He draws in a sharp breath as his eyes dart over the length of your body —it does not escape him that he is the first to see you like this. His eyes darken, though, through the lust, there is a plethora of adoration. 

Calloused fingers caress your sides and stomach, tracing random patterns into your flesh, thumbs brushing the underside of your breasts. He kisses a path along your jaw, a strong hand coming to cup the back of your neck, holding you in place when you shy away from the tickle of his beard. His other hand skims across your waist before settling on your hip, securing you in his hold. 

“Princess–” Eivor breathes, worried one more kiss will make it nigh impossible for him to stop, but you quieten him with your lips, chasing away any hesitance lingering between the two of you of what lies in store for the night.

You wrap your arms around his neck, pulling him closer till he sweeps your feet out from under you —laughing at your surprised squeak as he carries you to bed. Eivor lays you on the soft pelts of fur, his weight hovering above you, braced on his forearms. Cupping his face in your hands, you ignore the prickly bite of his beard as you kiss him again, your knees bracketing his hips, brushing against the patched linen and leather of his britches. “You’re sweeter than Freyja, wife,” he muses, kissing the soft swell of your breast —the lingering scent of roses and raspberries tickling his nose. 

Kissing his way down your chest, he drags his teeth across one of your nipples, giving the other a quick tweak. Chills spread across your flesh as you arch into his mouth —hands slipping into his hair. Hands gripping your thighs, Eivor urges you to part your legs wider for him. Doing as instructed, you watch, breathlessly, as he moves across your stomach, leaving open mouth kisses in his wake. Eivor drags his beard against your hip, nipping at the skin there. The warmth in your belly turns to flames. 

Twitching in his hold, you clutch the pelts beneath your hands —heart pounding in anticipation. Eivor in no rush, for there are many hours until the crows sing. He kisses your inner thighs, hot breath fanning against you. The first brush of his tongue has you sighing his name, eyes sliding shut as he laps at your slick folds. Holding your legs open, he makes love to you with his mouth alone. Eivor relishes in the small, obscene noises you make while trembling above him —his cock twitches, but he ignores his desires a moment longer. He leaves no part of you left untouched, his mouth finding every nook and crevice, laving and suckling to his heart's content. 

You burn, the fire in your belly demanding more, cunt fluttering around his tongue, aching for relief. “Eivor,” you whimper, chest heaving as your tug at his golden hair, fingers clutching at his unbound strands. He grunts, huffing a ragged chuckle when your hips move of their own accord —thighs fighting his iron grip. Eivor nuzzles at you, spreading you open with his thumbs. You cry out at the first touch of his tongue to your clit, but then he wraps his lips around the swollen bundle, tongue flicking out. Your body bends to his will, as though you are but wet clay in the hands of a skilled potter. 

Enraptured, you barely notice when he eases one finger into your warmth and then a second —slowly thrusting and stroking. The flames in your belly flood your veins, and with a wordless moan, you give in to the hedonistic haze —it feels as though nothing matters beyond this with the waves and sparks fizzing through your blood. 

Eivor wheedles you down from the high, gradually, murmuring words of praise between your thighs —how beautiful you looked in the throes of passion, how sweet you tasted, finer than sweet honey mead. He eases his fingers from you and crawls back up your body, retracing a similar path with kisses and soft nips. When he kisses you, you can taste your essence of his lips and tongue and feel the hard length pressing against your inner thigh through his pants. It makes you ache with need and want.

Fumbling with the ties of his pants and underpants, Eivor hurriedly pushes them down his legs and tossing them to the side, wedging himself back between your thighs. You feel the blunt head of his cock glide between your folds, his hips rocking back-and-forth as he coats himself in your slick. Heart racing, your body cries out at his languid teasing. Eivor lowers his mouth to your shoulder, worrying the skin between his teeth, his eyes never leaving yours. 

One of his hands moves slips between the bed and your back, moving further to cradle the back of your head as he guides himself with his free hand into your warmth. You grip onto his shoulder, nails digging into his back as he presses forward, slowly, giving you time to adjust to his girth until he is fully seated —hips flush against yours. With only a thin line dividing pleasure from pain, you understand why the act could be sacrilege in the eyes of God, nothing should make a man or woman feel so divine. 

He braces his weight on bent forearms, one of his hands cupping your cheek as he skims your expression for pain or discomfort. He finds none, only a soft smile and hazy, lust-darkened eyes. You guide him down, kissing him —draping one of your legs across the back of his thigh. “Eivor?” A low hum resounds his acknowledgment, though he busies himself leaving a soft line of kisses from the corner of your lips to your temple. “You can move now,” you tell him —pushing your hips up into his. 

Eivor kisses you, his tongue parting your lips as he rocks his hips back and presses forward —swallowing a soft gasp and then another as he draws back further. It’s a slow rhythm of long and deep strokes that lets you feel the slow drag of his cock with each thrust. He hovers above you, punctuating some thrusts with a kiss and others with a raspy curse to the gods. You draw your legs up his sides, spreading them wider —welcoming Eivor to claim you as he desires. 

Every push and pull of his hips brings him deeper inside you. Eivor pants at your ear, his breathing ragged and strained as his pace falters —thrusts growing quicker and rougher as he seeks his release. Beneath your palms, the muscles in his back and shoulders ripple, contracting with each thrust. 

The hand tangled in your hair disappears —rough fingers sliding between your breasts and across your stomach, down to where your body is joined with his. He presses his thumb against your clit, stroking and rubbing circles, and smiles against your neck at his reward —soft cries of his name mingled with breathy moans and the feel of your walls fluttering around his cock. 

A low hiss escapes him when your nails scrap over the skin of his back and shoulders, seeking purchase as you tremble and writhe —tilting your head back into a pillow, back arching from the bed. The flames from earlier return, taking hold of you and spreading through your veins in a hot wave. Eivor’s name topples from your lips like a prayer as you cling to him, body shaking and driving him closer to his end. 

You squeeze him with your thighs and grip onto his biceps, thrumming with pleasure as he ruts into you, grunting. With another thrust, his body shudders, and his hips still as his cock twitches deep inside your warmth. Eivor’s lips part as he lets out a string of curses and praises —moaning. You cup his face, smoothing the furrow in his brows and tracing the deep scar on his cheek. Shaking, he rolls his hips into yours thrice more and accepts your kiss when you guide him down to your lips again.

Spent, Eivor lays his head on your breast and memorizes the feel of your sweat slicken bodies flush against one another. You drape an arm around his shoulders, stroking back his golden hair. A good arrangement, he thinks to himself, kissing the soft skin next to his lips. “I am proud and happy to call you my wife,” he breathes, turning his clear blue gaze up to you. He hadn’t a true choice in this marriage, but given the chance, he would still choose you a hundred times over. 

His words make your heart swell with warmth and bring tears to your eyes. “I feel the same, husband,” you note —fingers combing through his beard. Only a short time has passed, but it seems as if the two of you were always meant to find one another —heresy be damned. It had not taken long, but you are certain you already love him. 

Lying there in each other’s arms, time slows to an eternity. You whine when he slides his softening cock out of you —leaving an empty feeling as his warm seed trickles down your thighs. He chuckles as he moves from the bed and gathers up a linen towel. He thinks you a sight to behold lying atop the furs with wild hair and a debauched smile. Eivor cleans the mess between your legs and soothes the few red marks on your hips and thighs with quick kisses before rejoining you beneath the covers. 

He lays on his side, and you pillow your head on his outstretched arm, nuzzling close against his chest and threading one of your legs through his. Eivor presses his cheek to the crown of your head and strokes your hair. “Rest, princess,” he breathes, knowing the gods had been good to lead him to a woman like you.

* * *

THE LONGSHIP COMES to dock before a bustling borough in the heart of Mercia. Eivor offers his hand, helping you onto the wharf. After spending the majority of a week on the river, it is good to feel solid ground beneath your feet for more than a hasty meal or uneasy rest on the riverbanks. “Princess-” Eivor smiles, motioning toward the people and the wooden storefronts and homes set before the longhouse rising from a hill “–Ravensthorpe.” Love and pride fill his heart, spilling over into a bright smile and voice. You glance the settlement and back to your husband, placing a quick kiss on his scarred cheek before taking the well-trodden path to the longhouse. 

A band of excited children races toward the docks with a white-and-grey wolf cub nipping at their heels, shouting with glee at Eivor’s return. It’s been months since Eivor last helped with their lessons or played with them by the waterfall. They take him by storm and force. At the bottom pile, you can make out his deep laughter among the excited cries. You cannot help but smile. Eivor Wolfsmal is loved, not just by you, but his people. 

He rises from the ground, smiling as he brushes off the dirt from his tunic, having whispered something to the rowdy group that sent them running for the longhouse. “Felled by children and a wolf pup. Are you sure you’re a _drengr_?” You ask, laughing as you pluck a small clot of grass from his hair and wipe away the streak of mud on his unmarred cheek. 

Eivor’s eyes narrow, lips kinking into a taunting smirk. “Are you mocking me, wife?” He challenges. 

You clutch your heart, feigning offense at his accusation. “The mighty Eivor?” He raises a brow at the moniker. _Mighty_ , it is a title he could get used to, just as he had grown used to hearing your call him husband in a sweet, singsong voice. “Never,” you smile. 

Word of his return spreads quickly, and before the merchant’s tent, most of the settlement gathers, smiling as they welcome Eivor home and are equally as quick to embrace you as one of their own. All doubts are chased away when Eivor wraps his arm around your waist and kisses your temple, smiling. “Welcome home,” he breathes —it is good to be back in Ravensthorpe, but even better to have you at his side. 


	26. Stumbling across Eivor as he bathes.

YOU’VE SPENT MOST the day searching the paths around Colcestre looking for your husband. Eivor Wolfsmal had shown up covered in blood and muck from a successful hunt with Bristan only to disappear after a short kiss for a greeting before you could mention the scroll sent by one of Randvi’s scouts. Alfida mentions a spring and waterfall south of the stone walls when you return to the decrepit Roman villa with nothing to show for your search. 

Following a winding stream a few yards from a well-traveled path, you start to hear the soft roaring of a waterfall. Breaking through the trees, you stop at the edge of the pool —your search ending. Eivor stands beneath the waterfall, stripped of armor and weapons, wearing only a pair of freshly sewn linen underpants. Unbound, his golden hair falls past his shoulders —concealing the top of a dark blue-black tattoo of raven wings. 

You know every inch of his body from several long years of marriage and friendship before that. Have learned the stories of how he received even the smallest of scars and know where to kiss him to make him play into your hands, yet you still take a moment to admire him. Thick, strong arms with a broad chest to match and legs corded with muscle. _A fine man_. 

He doesn’t notice you stripping on the bank, nor does he hear you wading through the shallow pool for the roar of the fall, so when you reach out and brush away a splotch of dirt on his lower back, he jumps a little, even if his mind tells him the touch is familiar. “You startled me,” Eivor says with a low chuckle, glancing over his shoulder before turning to face you. 

“That wasn’t my intent,” you smile, pressing one of your hands to the center of his chest. Little seems to have changed since you were both rowdy children —you were still the only person able to sneak up on Eivor, even without the aid of a roaring waterfall. You tilt your chin up, and Eivor is quick crane down, pressing another quick kiss to your lips. “I’ve been looking for you,” you tell him, smile faltering. He knows something is wrong. 

Eivor grasps your hands, pulling you away from the waterfall toward the pool bank. “What is it?” He asks, brows furrowed. 

“Randvi sent word–” you splash water toward Eivor, distracting yourself from the pang of sadness twisting your gut “–Ceolbert has left Ravensthorpe at his father’s wishes.” Eivor raises his brow, surprised to hear of the æthling’s departure. He knew the boy could not stay forever, but it always warmed his heart to see you and Ceolbert interacting —exchanging and sharing Saxon and Norse beliefs and traditions. “He regrets not being able to give you proper thanks or a farewell.” 

For months, Ravensthorpe had been Ceolbert’s home, the people became family, and you like a mother to him —or so he had told you over a pot of stew one night. If the Nornir were kind, your and Eivor’s fate would cross with Ceolbert’s once again. “He’s a good lad,” Eivor remarks, draping his arm around your shoulders.

“Aye,” you laugh, “so long as we can keep him from Ivarr.” Ivarr Ragnarsson has little reservations in life, but from the time you spent with him and Ceolbert in Ledecestrescire, you know he cares for the boy in his own way, however, twisted it may be. Eivor’s lips curve into a lopsided smile, his clear blue gaze shifting from you to the cloudless sky where Sýnin circles overhead, keeping vigilance. 

You lean into Eivor’s side, cheek pressing against his chest. Despite traveling to Essex together, you’ve hardly seen each other in the past days. He turns his cheek, lips brushing against your temple. “I told Bristan we would be leaving in the morn,” Eivor announces. Estrid remains in Rollo’s capable hands, waiting for passage to Francia, and Bristan is to marry his childhood sweetheart. Easy enough tasks to secure another alliance for the Raven Clan. The morning hunt with the Ealdorman of Colcestre was to find a beast worthy of serving a new ally.

You poke at Eivor’s stomach and glance up at him, mirth shining in your eyes. “Ah, so you were cleaning up for the feast.” He nods, and a new smile kinks your lips. “Wise choice, husband, you were starting to smell,” you tease, tugging on a lock of his golden hair. 

Eivor feigns offense, splashing water at you. “And yet somehow you always smell of roses and raspberries, wife?” He queries, raising his brow in challenge. You narrow your eyes at him and shove him back into the water, the both of you laughing. It’s difficult to remember the last time you both felt this carefree —it must have been years ago before you ever even set sail from Fornburg. 

You tread water, circling him, but he’s quick as a viper when he lurches forward and wraps his arms around your waist, pulling you close to him. “Eivor,” you laugh, pushing on his shoulder when he drags his beard along your neck and jaw. Smiling, he settles his lips on yours —a proper kiss, the way you deserved to be kissed every time. Your fingers slide back into his hair, holding him in place as he parts your lips and swallows the soft sigh you make. 

Sýnin perches on the rock where Eivor left his clothes drying and croaks —a low gurgling rasp— reminding you both the hours in the day are quickly slipping away. Eivor rests his forehead against yours, a soft smile on his lips as your fingers trace over the scar on his cheek before combing through his beard. As much as Eivor does not wish for the moment to end, it must. “Let us go prepare our speeches and farewells,” he notes. 

Smoothing out the skirt of your woolen dress, you turn, helping Eivor with his bracers and the buckles of his ornate hidden blade. You look up at him —it’s always a little odd seeing his hair unbound. He looks softer without the warrior braids and hair beads. “Always liked your hair like this,” you muse, brushing the damp locks from his face, fingers tracing the raven tattoo above his ear and down to the mottled patch of skin on his neck.

“I’ll remember that,” he tells you. Eivor wraps his arms around you, holding onto this short reprieve as long as he can —his lips brush over your forehead. You smile, tucking your face into his chest. So long as you were with Eivor, you would always be home.


	27. Being a reincarnation of Havi's wife and finding Eivor.

IT IS A rare thing when King of the Æsir comes to Fensalir of his own volition —leaving behind the golden hall and his score of warriors. He walks at the edge of the water through the tall grasses with Huginn resting on his shoulder and Muninn flying overhead. His gaze lingers ahead to a figure clothed in white, picking flowers and herbs. _Frigg_ —a smile pulls at his lips— _my queen_. Huginn leaps into the sky when he pushes back his dark hood, stepping closer to where his heart and troubled mind have led him. 

“Havi,” you greet, having foreseen his arrival and the reason for it. Rising from the patch of white blooms —Baldr’s brow, you named them, after your beloved son— you brush the dirt from your hands and smooth down the front of your white gown. He stands before you as few have seen him, vulnerable and seeking guidance for a storm brews in the depths of his mind. The clouds gather, shadowing his clear blue gaze and giving him the countenance of a man walking the path to self-destruction. It is a look you do not like to see in any man, especially your husband. 

He does not explain his coming —long has the giant, Vafþrúðnir, dwelled in your husband’s mind for no other reason save the claim he is the wisest being in the nine realms. Taking Havi’s hand, you lead him to a bench at the edge of the fen-water, thinking of ways to dissuade him from a needless battle of strength or wit. You peer up at him from beneath your lashes, thumb running across his knuckles. “You are ever wise, husband–” Havi’s lips kink into a half-smile at the praise though it falters a moment later as you continue “–but Vafþrúðnir is the all the wiser.”

Two ravens with dark feathers shining like an oil slick in the pale sun come to perch —Huginn sits proudly on Havi’s shoulder, Muninn on yours. If it is only concern Havi has for the movement and dealings of the mighty Jötunn, then his ravens would suffice, but the look he wears is not one of mere concern. Muninn croaks at your ear as though he agrees with your thoughts. You reach up, stroking the feathers of Muninn’s underbelly. “Send Huginn or Muninn in your stead,” you supplicate, watching the crooked smile creep up onto his lips.

“Sweet Frigg,” Havi says, bemused by what he considers your concern, “you doubt me still.”

“Only because you do not see what is more than ten steps ahead of you until you arrive,” you admonish. Havi is wise in his own right, though at times, his temper tried to outweigh wisdom and reason. “You have your doubts,” you tell him with a soft smile, no other knew Havi as you did —sometimes he wonders if you know him better than he knows himself, and oft times the answer is _yes_ , “else you would not visit my dwellings.” He looks away, shaking his head with a soft smile, unable to deny his wife and queen knew him well. You raise your hand to his scarred cheek, bringing his gaze back to you. “Go, dear Havi,” you breathe, “yet know I will not soothe your wounded pride.”

He rises from the bench, and you follow —both ravens leaping back into the watercolor sky. “When has my queen ever done so?” Havi steps closer, his rough hands cradling your face. You tilt your chin up, accepting a kiss as payment for your counsel.

* * *

THE GOD OF Thunder and your step-son comes to Fensalir asking you to tend his father. Havi has been distraught for days after visiting with the Nornir, and Thor believes his beloved step-mother and queen are the only balm for such distress. You go to him in the twilight hours, finding him sitting atop the world with a distant and troubled look. He pays no mind to your approach, save moving to the left on his great throne to make room for you to sit. “What ails your mind, dear Havi?” You ask, sitting at his side —fingertips following the scar on his cheek, brushing through his close-cropped golden beard now tinged with the first kiss of silver. 

Havi turns his head, looking upon you in despair, but there is something else in his solemn gaze too —defeat. He pulls your hand from his cheek, thumb stroking the back of your palm. “Have you foreseen what the Nornir have?” 

Thor had not dispelled the reason behind the storm brewing within his father, but upon his question, you know what is troubling him —for the doom of the Æsir has plagued your thoughts and waking dreams. Though perhaps a worse fate lay ahead should you beget what visions fate had bestowed upon you. Havi is not one to accept his foretold ruin without first attempting to thwart the threads of fate. Information could be a dangerous thing. The difference between poison and medicine often lay within the dose. Sighing softly, you slip your hand free of his gentle grasp. 

“I cannot reveal what I have seen, nor am I privy what others have foreseen.” You lay your hand on his scarred cheek, bringing his gaze to you. The spark in your eyes gives him hope and eases his mind. _Sweet Frigg_ , he thinks, _ever the cure for my madness, my rock in a tempestuous sea_. Havi covers your hand with his and leans toward you. The rough hair of his beard tickling your cheek before his lips brush against yours. “Have faith,” you breathe upon parting, resting your forehead against his. “Ragnarök shall not be our end.” It is a promise.

* * *

“EIVOR!” WALLACE CRIES, helping his sister bring an injured woman into the longhouse of Ravensthorpe on a stormy night. He rouses from sleep and hastily puts on his tunic, greeting the hunters while rubbing his heavy eyes as they adjust to the dying firelight from the cook-fire and braziers. Eivor does not expect to see a woman supported between the siblings —head lolled forward with blood dripping from her arm and side. It takes him a moment to spur into action, but he takes Petra’s place and leads the injured woman to his chambers, helping her to the straw-and-rag stuffed mattress. 

Kneeling, he brushes aside the hair clinging her to face and freezes, eyes wide. “ _Frigg_.” He breathes the name without a second thought and feels his heart clench. This woman is but a stranger, and yet a part of him has always known her. He is sure of it. Eivor presses his hand against the gash at her side and looks over his shoulder to Petra. It will take more than a cautery iron to heal this affliction. “Find Valka,” he tells the huntress. She nods, bolting from the longhouse as Wallace brings a basin of water and torn pieces of an old tunic. 

Valka comes with her poultices and cordials, kneeling bedside. As soon as she looks between Eivor and the injured woman, the Seer _knows_. Eivor Wolfsmal may be attempting to escape one knot in the tangled threads of fate, but he cannot run from them all. A bloody hour passes, but when the Seer takes her leave, she tells Eivor the woman will live, for the gods have smiled upon her, just as they smiled upon him.

* * *

GROANING, YOU BEGIN to wake with a pang of hunger and thirst —the dull throbbing in your ribs is only a distant pain. The bed beneath you is soft, the wool and pelt blankets warm. The scent of cloudberries and honey linger in the air, reminders of a home no longer standing and a place you frequent in dreams. A rough hand curls around your wrist, jarring you into alertness, suddenly aware of the unfamiliar surroundings and the man sitting bedside in a disheveled tunic with partially unbound golden hair, hardly awake in the morning hours. “ _Havi_?” You whisper. His is a face you know well —from his kind blue gaze to the scar on his cheek and the curve in a once-broken nose. 

He stares at you. He _knows_ you. Eivor knows the curve of your lips, the gleam in your eyes, even the whisper of your voice. _Sweet Frigg_ , his mind murmurs again and a strange feeling of relief overcomes him —as though a lifetime search has finally come to a close. “Eivor,” he corrects, ripping himself from the dream. Petra told him how they found you in the forest, stumbling away from the largest wolf either hunter ever seen. “They say you fended off a wolf on your own.” Spoken like that, it sounds a heroic deed —you left the beast for dead near a ravine, but the wolf had almost done the same to you. “What were you doing out in such a storm?” He asks, raising a tired brow. 

“Searching–” you sit up with a groan, holding onto your linen-bound side “–for home.” One of his hands covers yours, the other pressing against your lower back. Beholding Eivor, though, you realize your search has ended —you do not know him, but the feeling in your gut and the lightness of your heart in his presence tells you this is home. _Dear Havi_. Dreams and fate have led you here for a purpose. 

Eyes darting over Eivor’s features, you smile, offering your name. He repeats it, lips kinked. Your name is just as sweet on his lips as Frigg’s, if not sweeter. A moment passes, the silence hanging in the early morning air broken by the low croak of a raven perched in the rafters above your resting bed. Eivor glances up at Sýnin —the raven can sense something too. “You can stay here,” he notes, softly and without hesitance. “Ravensthorpe can be your home.” 

The generous offer makes your heart clench and brings tears welling up in your eyes. He smiles, and now you are certain your searches have finally ended. You pull your hand away from your side and Eivor’s hand, lifting it to his scarred cheek as you’ve done hundreds of times in dreams. Unwittingly, he leans into the touch —he’s done this before, and he recognizes the gentle caress of your thumb as it runs over the jagged scar. Eivor sighs —all of this and _you_ are familiar. 

Driven by memory, he rises to his knees, seeking your lips with his own. The tickle of his beard on your jaw and cheek is a warning, but you do not shy away —you’ve known him for a hundred lifetimes, and this is only a reunion. Eivor’s lips move against yours, both his arms loosely sliding around your waist. You smile against his lips, fingers combing through his golden beard. There are no sparks, for there is already a deep flame kindled between you both —one that cannot be extinguished in this life or the next. The threads of fate come together, and two halves are made whole. 


End file.
